Sanity
by PreventPersuadePervert
Summary: It isn't the same, when half of you dies. Not that George is sporting how he's feeling, except to his outlets. When he's asked what he is waiting for, he can't even answer anymore. Could you? Edited. Slash. GW/OW. Complete.
1. Fred's Introduction

Title: Sanity

Rating: Anywhere from PG-13 to R.

Pairings & Warnings: Mainly George/Oliver but contains Fred/Angelina, plus all of the Canon pairings exist. Multi-chaptered. Post-Hallows. Slash and Het. Angst. Language. A lot of drinking. All of those fun things.

Notes: Fred married Angelina Johnson before his death. They had a daughter two days prior to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Summary: It isn't the same, when half of you dies. Not that George is sporting how he's feeling, except to his outlets. When he's asked what he is waiting for, he can't even answer anymore. Could you?

* * *

Fred's Introduction.

Being dead really isn't that big of a deal. It is warm and comfortable here. There is no sun, no rain, but there are clouds. Giant white things that you can actually touch. I thought that had just been a lot of fairytale, the clouds. How they feel like marshmallows up in heaven. They don't feel quite as squishy, and I would never try to eat one. Not that I need to eat. I am actually a stiff and all…

There are houses here too. At first I found that most unbelievable. What the hell do you want with a mortgage when your dead? But I was explained to on arrival, "No, silly Fred you idiot. They are just other people's parties. You know, what they wanted during life."

What had I wanted during life?

I spent time pondering on that particular subject. To find your "party" it takes awhile, or so Mrs. Potter tells me. The Potters live (haha live), in a beautiful townhouse by a beach. The water is real too, I've touched it at their courtyard gatherings. Every so often they invite other stiffs over for conversation or games. But usually everyone just keeps to themselves and their own ponderings. I don't have a place. I don't sleep anymore, but there is no nighttime anyway.

Sometimes I think I would like perpetual sunset. All the colors, pinks and purples and oranges splashed together above still water. Call me a romantic guy, but that would be one hell of an afterlife.

What I want most is Angelina.

I covet her life. She is alive and whole without me to care for her. She should have lived in my joke shop instead of crammed in mine and Georgie's old bedroom at the Burrow. We could have slept in a bigger bed, and that was hard as anything to sleep that close while she was pregnant. We managed, though. We always had.

They buried me with my wedding band. I keep it on, always. I've asked the other stiffs if there is a way to see the living still. But their answers were not what I had hoped for.

"Fred, that isn't something I would recommend," Remus Lupin smiled, but it was cracked. Tonks reached over and patted his hand.

"We couldn't pull him away once he saw Teddy try to walk," she said plainly.

I looked over at Sirius. "Why not?"

Sirius had on the same sort of grimace as his best friend. "It pains the dead to watch their living. Especially to notice their mistakes,"

I frowned. "Mistakes?"

"Yes, dear." This time, Lily Potter was speaking. "The living make mistakes every second. Whether it is silly feuds or fights, or just dawdling time away. Precious time that we could been with them, or that we would have had ourselves."

She tried looking happier, but she hadn't fooled me.

"Well where do I even go to see?"

All of them looked at one another.

"There," Tonks pointed a pale finger over to a tree clustered pasture. There was nothing significant as far as I could see. Except, that Colin Creevey sat Indian-style, looking unhappily at the whiteness above him.

"Is he seeing something?"

"Yes. He is watching his loved ones on earth," James Potter looked least pleased about the pasture.

I must have looked intrigued because he grasped my arm.

"What?"

"You don't wanna see it," he was tight-lipped, his everlasting youthful face looked ancient. "I watched Harry for five entire years. It felt like a true hell,"

"Did he make many mistakes?"

James nodded, but only once. "Yes and no. I missed his entire life…to see him being groomed to die was miserable. But now I know he is well and I don't need to watch," he said very seriously, straightening up his shoulders. "And neither do you!"

So I haven't peeked. Not once have I strolled inside the field.

But I look at it.

I think about it.

I wonder if my baby Cornelia is a big girl now. Is she beautiful, like I've been hoping for? But more importantly- is she a riot like I was? I just pray she isn't a Percy. The world needs less Percy. I want her happy. I want Angelina happy. And Georgie.

I worry about them all a lot. Every emotion here is more heartfelt than when you are alive. And you don't feel anger. Ever. It falls into guilt and despair.

Dying itself was like falling asleep. I closed my eyes and I floated away and woke up on the porch swing at the Potter's townhouse. I used to think it was but a dream…that I would wake up and get back to the shop, and my wife and my life- but no. I don't get to be in that picture.

And that's the saddest party of all.


	2. Memorials And Other Fine Cutlery

Title: Sanity

Pairings & Warnings: Mainly George/Oliver but contains Fred/Angelina, plus all of the Canon pairings exist. Multi-chaptered. Post-Hallows. Slash and Het. Angst. Language. A lot of drinking. All of those fun things.

Notes: Fred married Angelina Johnson before his death. They had a daughter two days prior to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Summary: It isn't the same, when half of you dies. Not that George is sporting how he's feeling, except to his outlets. When he's asked what he is waiting for, he can't even answer anymore. Could you?

* * *

One year later and they all still show up. I suppose everyone feels that they must. Family and friends of Fred and myself have been popping in and out since eight in the morning. Mum's stressed, I can see it. All of her wrinkles are out today, frowning when appropriate and faking smiles the next. I know now why Dad claimed he had extra hours at the Ministry today. To avoid the masses. Well, not 'masses', I suppose. But a lot of people. A lot of people miss Fred.

Then again, they don't look into a mirror while passing and have to see his face.

"George, dear, put out another round of mugs for our guests," Mum fake smiles at the Fawcetts, who mingle with Charlie and discuss Romania. When she speaks to me she has her real face back on.

I glumly pour out eight more rounds of tea. It's lukewarm but I want them to go. Harry stares at me from across the kitchen table as though he is thinking the exact same thing.

"Well the principal of the idea is that their Ministry should have revamped their laws on dragon breeding ages ago," Mr. Whatshisname Fawcett waves his mug at the air when he talks.

Charlie responds mechanically, as he has done for most of the morning.

"I've sent them numerous reports, as have my entire unit. They just aren't interested,"

"Harry, have some more tea," Mum says and refills his cup again. He looks sadly into it but proceeds to drink it anyway.

There is a loud pop and a slender woman with long dirty-blonde hair appears into the kitchen. Several ropes entwined with something that looks like seaweed are pulled tightly against her neck, and there is a matching bracelet version on her arm. Her robes are the same green hue, and with her comes the salty bite and fresh smell of the sea.

"Luna!" Harry smiles. I feel myself smile a little too.

Luna Lovegood vanished right after the war. She would send random people postcards every so often, which was satisfying as many were sure she had died. She claimed she was touring Europe to find allegedly famous (and non-existent) magical beasts. No one had seen her much since Hogwarts fell.

She sat down beside Harry. Mum had a steaming mug of tea down in front of her within seconds, but Luna frowned at it.

"I can't drink tea,"

"Why?' I asked, knowing the answer would be ridiculous.

She fulfilled my assumptions.

"Because everyone knows tea leaves are known to breed Margapuffs," Luna now frowned at me, as though I am part of this so-called everyone.

Harry chuckles and that brings some color back into his face. "Well, I've never heard that,"

"Oh, yes Harry! Margapuffs nestle inside your stomach and their number one goal is to ruin the human immune system," Luna babbled on, her blue eyes wide as she explained their genealogy to Harry.

The Fawcetts leave and my mother slumps into a chair by the fireplace.

"Quite a day, isn't it?" she asks no one in particular.

I don't feel the need to answer if she isn't going to look at me.

Ginny, Hermione, and Ron enter from the garden. All of them are carrying baskets of carrots, lettuce, and parsnips.

"Thank you dears," Mum begins to cut and dice the produce for lunch.

Oddly, I don't think I'll eat any of it.

They join Luna and Harry and change the subject to Quidditch. For no apparent reason my chair becomes more uncomfortable than usual. But after all, it is a hard wood chair.

"I can't believe they delayed it an extra year," Ron shook his head. "Mad,"

"Come on, Ronald. It's just a sport, you know,"

Ron gives Hermione a stare as though he has never met her.

Her eyes narrow. "I'm serious, it's not as important as the Ministry regaining control,"

"Ah, c'mon that happened a good six months ago," Ginny said, stirring her mug of tea with a spoon.

"Well the season was over by then," said Harry.

"You guys wonder if Wood will be playing?" added Ron, ignoring Hermione's rolling eyes.

Now I know why I felt my chair harden beneath me. I try to shove mental images relating to Oliver out of my brain, but he's pissy and just as bullheaded as in actual life. They force themselves back inside.

"I reckon so," I mumble.

"Puddlemere United signed him five years straight up," Ginny said knowingly. "I don't think he'd ditch a deal that good,"

Oh yes, Oliver Wood. Signed right from Hogwarts to the best team in the minor leagues. If only his fans knew he was a right old pouf. Few people did of course. One of them was me, and the other was dead. Very good strategy he has. I suppose that's why he'll be Captain for England one day and I'll be milling around a fallen joke shop, while people wander in and out of pity because they want to see the "other twin,' the "one who didn't kick the bucket' during Voldemort's downfall.

I could blurt out that lovely piece of gossip to the papers. But then people would know what I am too. And I was intent at the moment to drag that down to my own grave. Which in my current state, I'll be there a week from next Tuesday.

A knock at the front door interrupts any conversations. Everyone was so used to bangs from the fireplace and the cracks from Apparition, that we all stayed seated.

More knocking. Hermione has sense and gets up to answer it.

"Angelina! You look well," she greets an unseen figure in the doorway.

"Thanks, Hermione,"

Angelina does look well. Better than the last time I had seen her. Then, she was just the widow at Fred's funeral. They hadn't been married long, several months. But she had still been the world to Fred. So had Cornelia. She rested against Angelina's right hip, large, ocean colored eyes staring quietly at those around her. A doll with a torn orchid patterned dress was clutched in her pudgy fist.

"Angelina!" my mother greeted her with a hug and kiss to Cornelia's forehead. It was real happiness this time. She was the first grandchild, after all.

"Mrs. Weasley, I'm so sorry I haven't been-," she starts, but Mum interrupts.

"It's Molly, dear. Let me hold her," Mum's eyes were a tad starry as Angelina passed over Cornelia. She didn't seem to mind the transfer. Her expression stayed curious.

She looks at me over Mum's shoulder.

"Sorry-, Molly. I know we haven't been for a visit, my Dad's been holding us up," she says with a dark look that only I seem to pick up.

"It's fine dear, everyone is busy. Arthur won't even be home until dinner, which you must stay for,"

Angelina shrugs. "I don't see why not,"

"Fine, fine," Mother croons to Cornelia who giggles. I'd laugh too if she put her face that close to mine.

Guests wander in and out of the house for the remainder of the day. After lunch when everyone just seemed to multiply by a thousand, I escaped. It wasn't hard. They all get distracted with storytelling too easily. I wonder if I'm the only one who has been burying all my so-called pent up emotions. Grief. Of course I miss Fred. But I will be damned if I will be made to sit and chat casually about him like we're talking about the weather.

I slam the bedroom door shut so hard that the windowpane rattles. The crowd below doesn't seem to notice.

They don't know half of what I know about Fred. They never will. I would like to keep it that way.

This bedroom is pathetic without his stuff. Dad made sure that when I moved in (temporarily of course, I have to get back to work sometime), that Fred's wardrobe and bed were gone. Their absence gaped open like a black hole on the left side of the room. Just by laying in my own bed, I feel the pull. It isn't the same and I guess I wasn't expecting different.

I feel ashamed to be moping about Fred. If he knew, I know he would so pissed that everyone was so upset. His worst fear was that it would wreck Mum and Angelina. Claimed that he knew I would be alright. He didn't have to worry about me sobbing over him. If only he could see that Angelina had Cornelia to live for, and Mum had five more kids and God knows how many other grandkids this lot was gonna turn out. Wasn't fair but it is true.

Without him, its rather like trying to breathe without lungs.

The ceiling is cracked above my bed. There are a lot of fractures in the walls, too. We hadn't been the safest inventors I suppose. But that is what made us so great. The danger…we had a thrill factor together. I snort but feel sickened afterward. I don't know if I can manage all that on my own.

To Fred, that _would_ sound lame. Wherever he is, he probably thinks I'm quite the pussy for being afraid of something I helped create. I just hope he trusts me with it.

By dinner, it is just the family left. A gigantic wooden table sits on grass outside the kitchen. Above it, floating candles light a meal made for a tiny army. At the center stands a vase of the strangest flowers I have ever seen. Soft blue and gold petals crown a pink center. They perfume the entire garden with a subtle smell that I recognize more than the actual flower.

My chest actually seizes up when I think about Oliver. I had actually wished for awhile that he, like Luna, would have vanished after Voldemort fell. But no, he was in the front lines at the Department Of Games and Sports, demanding that they reinstate professional Quidditch. His face and name bled through the Prophet for weeks. But yet I cannot remember why flowers would spark a memory. That particular type, for it seems to be a special mixture.

Pushing it from my head, I sit down between Ginny and Neville Longbottom. He, Luna, and Harry are staying of course. No one thinks of them as anything else but family.

The dinner was filling, to the point of pushing belts open, as it is custom. Pies and puddings and potatoes- my Mum's special touches to each one. That was a big reason it was nice to live here again. Fred and I weren't much for cooking and other household types of things. But there is an itch in me to go back to Diagon Alley. To remember whatever painful memories I've been repressing this year.

Dad and Bill bring out the dessert, which tonight is a plum crumble. Everyone sips on their goblets of wine, letting the conversation lull through politics and sports. Oliver is mentioned once...twice...three strikes. I fold my hands together and rest the pads of my thumbs above my eyes. I want to laugh when I think of it, of why if I saw Oliver, here and now, I would hex him into the hydrangea bushes. But it wouldn't mean anything, that laugh. It'd be fake and shallow and then people would ask why he meant so much to me. Why I cared.

It didn't matter that I had loved the bloody bastard. I wanted him to follow his dreams. But that was when I hoped his dreams included me.

The laugh comes out a little but I cough over it and drink it down with a gulp of wine. It fuzzes my brain. The air is warm, the dinner was excellent, the company includes almost all my favorite people. Yet I still feel like getting intoxicated in a shallow grave.

I grin and hold my glass slightly towards the sky. "Sorry for that one, brother," and I slurp down the rest of the shining crystal glass.

I offered to help Mum with dishes. Something she has probably never seen me do in my whole life. I think the surprise of the situation forced her to say yes.

We were alone at the sink, me handing her cleaned cutlery to put in the drawers.

"I needed to talk,"

She hovers at the open cupboard, arm up in the air. But she moves again after a moment.

"What about?"

"I'm moving back to the shop," I tell her over her fake smile.

She looks at her feet. Part of her would love to celebrate. Another wants to beg me to say. Oh Mum, the dilemmas I cause…

"I can't stop you, I know that," Her pursed lips let out a sigh. "But you know I want you here,"

She can't say that straight into my eyes. But that's okay. Those mirrors…I often skip looking at the pesky things.

"Yeah Mum, I know. But I need to sort it out," I say, putting plates away now. "It is still _my_ dream, you know,"

Her body quivers a little and I know she is thinking of Fred.

"Yes, dear. I know."


	3. Dinner With Theatrical Cues

Title: Sanity

Rating: Anywhere from PG-13 to R.

Pairings & Warnings: Mainly George/Oliver but contains Fred/Angelina, plus all of the Canon pairings exist. Multi-chaptered. Post-Hallows. Slash and Het. Angst. Language. A lot of drinking. All of those fun things.

Notes: Fred married Angelina Johnson before his death. They had a daughter two days prior to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Summary: It isn't the same, when half of you dies. Not that George is sporting how he's feeling, except to his outlets. When he's asked what he is waiting for, he can't even answer anymore. Could you?

* * *

"Thanks a bunch, Mr. Weasley," Javier Santos waves over his shoulder. He just ordered several dozen different items for his own shop in Madrid. I smile and put away the forms to deal with after closing.

The shop was mediocre. I took more orders than I sold in items on the shelves. I just wasn't as prudent about salesmanship any longer. If they want it, have it. I'll make more and we can all move it along.

I still find the structure of the place to be something of a wonderland. The neon colors are blinding of course, but beyond them, the arches and space…I close my eyes and still hear the old chaos that used to be king here. When I open them I see two punk squirts in the section with all the Muggle gags, like whoopee cushions. Giggling carries lightly over the high walls.

Those things sold too well for a wizard shop. They buy nothing, of course, which meant I could close early and work on order forms.

It feels eerie here with no one about. I've been hiring temps in the rush hours on weekends but most of the stuff I do alone. Too weird that way, which was why I sent an owl to Ginny.

She has been begging and pleading to escape the Burrow. Hermione can leave and go at whim, to see her parents. Ron can tagalong with her, and even Harry does when he is desperate. But no one questions Harry's disappearances anyway. Bill and Fleur have their own home, Charlie still lives in Romania, Percy has work as an excuse to leave during the day- everyone can leave Mum. Not that we don't love her. It is the random outbursts of anger and silent tears that break us all.

We can't fix her.

Ginny has no way out. She opted not to take any more equivalency tests and passed early, but hasn't had any job openings. Except at my store.

Above it were two bedrooms, a study, a sitting room, and a full kitchen and bathroom. It was like a tiny flat. She was family so I saw nothing wrong with having her around- except that I would be stealing her from Mum.

Strike two against the last surviving twin.

I walk up the narrow set of stairs that lead to the apartment. The sitting room was never really decorated. Just a sofa and some armchairs, all done in mauve. I fling the order forms onto the coffee table where they scatter. I'm not one for organization.

A grey owl with large yellow eyes was perched outside the slightly dusty window. I unlatched it so that Beatrice could fly in and sit on her post. She drops an envelope onto the nearest chair.

I pick it up and don't even need to look to know it is from Ginny.

_George,_

Come to supper tomorrow at six. Mum wanted to invite you herself (of course!)_ , but you know how she is about sitting down for even a minute. Harry, Hermione, and Charlie are coming, and Ron said he would make it. She's getting in a frenzy about Charlie, since she hasn't seen him since the reunion last month. Or you, you great bogey. Better come before she flips her wig and stalks into your shop._

I will of course be announcing that I am coming to work there. She will be angrier than a milk soaked kneazle, but she will accept it.

Much Love From,

Ginny.

I laughed at many parts of the letter, mostly about imagining Mum being "milk soaked", before realizing that was disturbing. I placed it amongst others in a chest of drawers, and then flopped into an armchair. It was squishy and just too comfortable for speech.

My eyes fluttered close after mere minutes, heart beating in steady rhythm to Beatrice's soft hoots and the tick of the grandfather clock.

Sunday suppers have been a Weasley affair for years. They stopped every now and then, breaking according to whatever era we were in, if turbulence occurred. But things are _normal_ now. If you can define normal in that place, however, you're cleverer than Merlin himself.

I picked out a new set of robes to wear. This would put Mum off on her tirade about how I'm not supporting myself correctly. With money comes great responsibility, including pleasing your Mum- who is a complete nutter. The robes are dark green, and a little big in the waist. I grimace in the three-fold mirror, knowing she will comment the weight loss in my stout figure. But that was to be expected. Can't have all the cake and eat it too. Actually, I haven't had any sort of cake for years.

Beatrice hoots from beside the wardrobe.

"Yes, I am a little peaky, eh?" I talk to my reflection.

She hoots again. Wonderful, I can talk to birds now.

The gold, expensive wrist watch that has been gleaming on my arm for several months now tells me that it's time to just give it up and leave.

"Well, hell. Let's just give it a shot," I turn towards the window. I pull through what feels like a narrow, dark tunnel and POP. My feet land gracefully onto soft, untilled dirt. The clucking of hens reaches my ears, the smell of steak-and-kidney pie wraps around my nose. Home. Lopsided and insignificant to others, but pleasant all the same. Ditching it for a month hadn't been such a swell plan. My heart really aches to see it staring at me, wondering where I've been gallivanting off to all this time.

"George is here!" I hear a woman's voice announce happily from the living room window. Blue curtains swish closed behind a shock of scarlet hair.

I walk up the steps through the front garden, and Ginny has the door unlatched.

"Ello' brother, long time no see," Ron shoves me a little hard, looking slightly apologetic when I brush him off.

"Shop's been a handful," I mumble. "Hermione," I turn to her. She hasn't detached from Ron's side in months.

"A handful? Surely you've hired help to replace-" she went to say his name, but Ron glared her out of it.

"Relax, Ronald. I won't go bonkers if she says 'Fred'. I still have all the eggs in my basket," I gave him a similar look, a warning, as he had given his girlfriend.

"Sorry, sorry," he stares awkwardly up at the ceiling.

"…well, have you?" Hermione nervously posts the question again.

"Temps. From an employment agency in the Prophet. But that's all,"

"But Ginny says that you are going to hire her-"

Ron stopped when Ginny entered and issued a heavy blow to his torso.

"What's that for!?"

"Shush, peabrain. Mum can't have word of that until I tell her," she says coolly, rubbing her arm from the attack.

"You coulda just said something…"

"Poor Ronnikins got frogged by his lil' sister?" I tease, prodding his sore spot.

Ginny and Hermione both giggle, causing Ron to flush scarlet.

"Where's Harry?" he attempts to distract.

"Where is Charlie is more appropriate," Mum enters, looking harassed. "Ron, go get two more chairs out of the upstairs closet and set them at the table please,"

"What for?" his brow furrows.

"Fleur and Bill decided to tell me ten minutes ago that they can make dinner now," she rolls her eyes while a bowl cradled in her arms self-stirs a beige mixture inside.

Rom grumbles, but summons the chairs down into the hall. "She's batty, thinking I should…" he trails off, mumbling away.

Hermione took that chance to roll her eyes. "It should be a pretty big night for announcements,"

"What'd you mean?" I watch her face turn sheepishly happy.

"We've all finally picked our careers!" she half-shouts, covering her mouth with her hands afterwards.

"That's excellent. Mind doing after I declare I'm leaving the nest?' says Ginny.

"No problem,"

A clamor in the kitchen acts like a doorbell.

"Ouch! Bill, that was my foot," Ron shouts, followed by our eldest's brothers apologies.

"What iz that acrid odor?" Fleur questions, with my Mum telling her it was, in fact, the food that we were about to eat.

"A regular Weasley evening, eh?" Charlie wanders in from the sitting room. His broad chest makes it hard for everyone to stand together in the tiny hall. I wonder why, but then I see Harry has appeared, holding Ginny's hand delicately as though it is fragile and ready to shatter.

"Let's just eat," I say, surprised to hear the quiet in my voice. It has grown there unpleasantly, much like a weed.

They followed me into the kitchen.

Dinner began well enough. Everyone enjoyed the pies (even Fleur), and Dad came in later with the sad news that Percy would be doing overtime until twelve. Mum seemed the only one who had remorse at this, but everyone welcomed Dad with handshakes and pushed extra helpings on his plate as it came by. Conversation picked up wherever it had ended from previous evenings.

"George, did you know about that?"

I stared at Harry. "What?"

"That Wood has gotten Quidditch through the system? Its back on!" he says happily over his half-eaten pie.

"Oh. Yes, I may have heard that,"

He frowns at my lack of enthusiasm. Oh, if he knew what I knew. His virgin skin would crawl right off his bones. Skin? Virginal? I doubt that is possible, whether even if he and Ginny had done the deed or not. Ah, well. You can't make sense at all times. Must be flexible.

Ron picks it up. "I heard that when he announced it at the press conference, he's been the model for International Games,"

"He's a spokesmen, isn't he?" I stab my mashed potatoes and they squish all over the plate like innards.

"Yes, I suppose he has furthered his _career_ a bit?" Hermione looks pointedly around at Ron and Harry.

They look clueless back at her until she folds her arms together in irritation.

"Oh fine. Ginny, just go," she begins to rub her pale forehead.

"Right," Ginny stands up and clinks her glass with her fork. "Family, I have a very important announcement to make,"

The talking ceases, and eyes turn to her. But before she can say anything, Fleur stands up too.

"Wait, dear sistur-in-law," she purrs out excitedly. "Bill and I have an announcement az well!"

"Hell," Ginny mumbles and sits back down loudly into her chair.

"That's right," Bill stands too and they face our parents, who look confused, but only with smiles on.

"We are having a baby!" Fleur says proudly and points to her abdomen. I notice now that there is a tiny bump beneath her red flowered dress and black cloak. Bill's eyes swell with pride when he looks down at the mound.

"To be due in the new year," he adds, stroking his wife's silvery blonde hair.

Mum runs over with gleaming, teary eyes. "Oh, that is just wonderful!" she kisses both of them several times on the cheek before allowing them to sit back down.

Mixed congratulations floated around, and even Ginny added one at the end. Everything grew oddly quiet after that so I said, albeit too loudly,

"What were you saying, Gin?" and looked at her from across the breadbasket.

"Oh right!" she stood again, staring directly at Mum. "I hate waiting for a job…and I am of age now…"

"Yes…" Mum's eyes narrow slightly.

"And I've decided to live at George's shop and work there until I can find what I wanna do," she finished with confidence. I felt like applauding her. She really was far braver than I, who had to coherence my own mother into household chores in order to tell her I was moving out. For the second time, even. But no one greeted Ginny with congratulations. Harry already knew what was going on, and just smiled up at her. Dad was rubbing Mum's shoulder, for she seemed on the verge of a different kind of tears.

"I think it's a good thing," Charlie softly spoke from his seat in the back. He was always the lovable black sheep of our family. He didn't ditch off like Percy- well, he did, but he always came home with exciting stories and trinkets for Mum. There wasn't a wife in the picture. Never will be by the lifestyle he leads. Not that he doesn't get laid. He's been bragging on about that since he hit sixteen. She would have to be quite the woman to keep up with Charlie Weasley.

Mum looked at him, every kind of expressions of surprise on her face.

"I do," he insisted. "Ginny's of age. It's her right to leave, and find out what she wants to be. It's what I did,"

Charlie seemed to think that should be good enough of a reason for anyone. He folded his large hands together and sat them on the table.

"Well, Ginny if this is what you want to do. We are behind you," Dad offered a half-smile.

"Thanks Dad," Ginny said into her plate.

"We have news too," Ron said so quietly I thought no one would hear it. Mum's fork clattered to her dinner, the clang echoed loudly in the kitchen.

"Are you all just going to leave me now? Am I that impossible to live with that all my children feel the need to flee?" she said wildly, a small amount of spittle flew from her mouth. I watched it hit Fleur's food without her notice.

"Molly," Dad muttered but she shook her head fervently.

"Mum- all we've decided is that we're going to begin Auror training!" Ron yelped over her squalling. She quieted immediately.

"You are staying here?"

"Yes," Hermione answered, staring at Mum with a note of sadness in her eyes.

She wiped her hands nervously on her peach colored apron, still hiding her violet dress from cooking earlier. "I apologize,"

Everyone decided that now was the perfect time to sip anxiously from their wine glasses.

"Are you going to train too, Hermione?" Bill asked, shattering the silence as a gift to everyone.

"Oh, no, actually," she gulped down her drink too fast in order to answer. "Since I've qualified for my N.E., I've received an offer from the Department For The Regulation and Control Of Magical Creatures,"

I watched as Hermione went of a ten minute spiral about how the Ministry was interested in her ideas about rights for house-elves. And it had all been because of S.P.E.W.

Mum kept quiet through most of supper, which was probably why the rest of it was so enjoyable. Dad pulled Charlie and Bill into the sitting room after, with promises of brandy. Ron followed with a determined look on his face. Hermione agreed to help Mum gather the chickens before it got too dark. Harry vanished, but that was something I was already accustomed to. It didn't seem to bother Ginny, either, because she helped me scrub the dishes and wave them away into their proper cabinets.

"Oh, look here, perfect," I spotted a bottle of wine stored below with the dish rags. I poured half goblets for me and Ginny as we halfheartedly enchanted the knives to soak themselves.

"She wasn't too pleased,"

"Mum?"

"Yeah,"

I shrug, letting the dark violet liquid dance around my tongue in bitter warmth. "Tis' to be expected,"

"Well how did you tell her?" she frowns, for her set of forks were still muck coated.

"I dragged her here. Caught her off guard by asking to help her out."

"Lucky, I should've asked you how you did it earlier!"

"It wouldn't have mattered,"

She stares at me, I can feel her soft brown eyes all over my back.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't matter as much. You're a baby to her. The only girl. It's not the same, just like she let Charlie go,"

"You matter!" she walks over to me, her face in a familiar look of anger. "She still loves you, Georgie,"

The name makes my heart freeze in its beating. I can almost feel Fred when she's around. They were so similar, so full of happiness and life. I had been too, but always a little more timid. I kept Fred from a lot of stupid mistakes. And let him go ahead and make a lot of them too, knowing I'd end up with it blowing to pieces in my face later. It was just our thing.

I shake her off.

"I know. Just sayin',"

Silence stifled us. Most of the wine had disappeared, along with a few dishes, when Charlie enters the kitchen. Between his teeth was a fat, brown cigar issuing a light purple-black smoke.

"Mum catches you, that'll be burning into your palm," Ginny greeted, without even looking over her shoulder.

"Shush up, Dad's sneakin one in too, before she comes down from her bath," Charlie playfully bats her arm. "You two are downing all the red," he points at the shapely green bottle on the table.

"Your turn to shush," Ginny giggles and empties her goblet in one swig.

Charlie looks at me. "Getting our lil'sister sloshed?"

"Nah, just pissed," and I offer my goblet to him before I down the rest of mine, too.

He shakes his head. "Better keep Harry away then,"

Ginny looks appalled. "Harry would never take advantage of me!" she shouts.

"Quiet," Charlie hisses. "You'll get Mum down ere',"

Ginny rolls her eyes and turns back to scrubbing the cast-iron pots.

"What about you, brother? Got a girlfriend yet?" Charlie pats my back, inhaling and realizing the smoke into rings.

"No, but neither do you,"

He grins mischievously around the cigar. "Yeah I do! About six of em' at that!"

"Nice, I'm sure they enjoy that,"

"That's why we don't tell them," he chuckles only harder when Ginny slaps his arm.

"You're disgusting, pig," but she's laughing too.

Soon I'm laughing, and we're all having a chuckle like we used to as kids. It was the first real feeling I've had in quite awhile. Probably since Oliver. He made me feel real, too. Actually, he made me feel rather supernatural like a god. Every touch was like the burn from a flame, every look he gave was smothered in complete contentment while I was around. Until I told him to go. Go on his quest for his dream to become Captain for England.

Go ahead and leave me here. Leave me unstable.

The laughs die and we're drinking and smoking. Not typical things as we did as children…but comfortable in their own right. What comes out next was a slip, a slip I will probably regret. But I blame the wine.

"I want to tell you guys something important," I sit down at our hard-scrubbed wooden table. It looks medieval without the familiar auburn cloth cover.

They stare at me. Ginny's sitting up on the counter, dishtowel over her leg. Her eyes are half-closed, but focused. Charlie looks at me sternly over the haze of his cigar.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," I say quickly. The biggest lie all century, I'm sure, but that's beside the point. "It's just something…well, that few people know so I think it is time I start confessing,"

"What did you do?" Ginny grins, kicking me from her perch.

"Nothing!" I groaned. "Listen, the only people on earth that know…well, one is a secret and the other is Angelina,"

"Our Angelina?" Charlie asks with interest.

I nod. "Both of you must swear not to tell a soul,"

Ginny and Charlie exchange a look of curiosity and agreement.

"Alright," they chime in unison.

"I," I took a swig of wine to crush any nerves left standing. "Am a…well, a pouf. A queer, whatever," I say quickly.

Ginny snorts on her wine, and Charlie leans back in his chair.

"Really?" he looks seriously into my eyes.

"Yes I am,"

He thinks on this, but then pats my shoulder as though offering me congratulations.

"I envy you for never having to deal with the scorn of women,"

Ginny makes a hissing sort of sound. "Because men are _so_ transparent,"

"None of that matters!" I find their arguments both good, but Oliver is both scornful and obtuse. "Just keep it hushed, alright?"

Both of them nod in agreement, heads shaking like silly string puppets.


	4. Babies Have Better Luck

Title: Sanity

Rating: Anywhere from PG-13 to R.

Pairings & Warnings: Mainly George/Oliver but contains Fred/Angelina, plus all of the Canon pairings exist. Multi-chaptered. Post-Hallows. Slash and Het. Angst. Language. A lot of drinking. All of those fun things.

Notes: Fred married Angelina Johnson before his death. They had a daughter two days prior to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Summary: It isn't the same, when half of you dies. Not that George is sporting how he's feeling, except to his outlets. When he's asked what he is waiting for, he can't even answer anymore. Could you?

* * *

It didn't take Ginny long to fit in with me at the shop. She had her way with people better than I ever had. The customers seemed thrilled that instead of a sullen, pale George Weasley, they could see a gorgeous Ginerva wielding the register. Not that any of the teenage boy populous could have laid so much as a fingernail on her without Harry appearing and blowing them into smithereens. But why break the hopes of youngsters?

"Gin, grab that crate there. It's the new shipment of love potions,"

Ginny slid the hot pink box across the counter. It matched the neon green.

"You know, I'm glad I left," she says for the fiftieth time. Her whole appearance shines more these days. Mum tends to dull your mood sometimes. But like I said, you can't ever blame the woman.

Merlin forbid.

"Oh yeah?" I mumble as I haul the box over to the equally blinding display, all done up in roses and pink feathers.

"Yeah!" she comes over and helps place the heart-shaped crystal bottles on the shelves. "Ron's thinking about applying too,"

I pull the label sheet, which had been jammed between my lips for safe keeping, out of my mouth.

"You all can't live here Ginny. I'm out of bedrooms,"

She smiles, much to my chagrin. "I know Georgie. He's living at home with Harry during their training. He just needs the Galleons," Her grin deepens.

"What is so funny?" I ask, setting the last potion in its place.

"He's trying to save up, you see. The twit wants to ask Hermione to marry him,"

I stare at her, utterly amused. "He knows she'll think he's bonkers?"

Ginny throws the box behind the counter. "Apparently not,"

I sigh, the air settling warmly from my chest. The shop was dwindling down from the rush that somehow always existed from noon till six on weekends. I stretch uncomfortably, only to see Ginny do the same. She's staring at the door, but her eyes are a million worlds away.

"Gin?" I bring her back down. Oddness fumbles through my system. "What's up?"

She shakes her head, scarlet hair rippling down her back. "Nothing. Just that Harry proposed to me,"

I almost choke on my own tongue.

"Wh-at?"

"Yes," she frowns for the first time all day. Last week. "But I had to decline,"

"Naturally!" I exclaim. "You are much too young!"

Her warm brown eyes turn cold, and then narrow. "That isn't the problem,"

"Then what is?"

"We're both leading different lives right now…he's going into the Ministry…and well, don't put much stock in the idea, but I'm trying to get a chance to audition for a minor league Quidditch team," the last few words came out entirely in a whisper.

"That's good, Ginny,"

Her eyes widen. "You think so?"

"I know so,"

We finish the work day quietly, both being pleased that we were family first and ab\n employee/boss second.

It was a laugh to be alongside her. Living together was no different. With us cooking side-by-side, the meals tended to be edible. Not the muck that Fred and I usually concocted, binned, and then went and ate elsewhere. Tonight, roast chicken and beans were on the menu. Bland, but easy to digest.

"You best promise not to tell Mum," Ginny says hours after that conversation had ended.

"About which, the Harry thing or the Quidditch thing?" I chuckle as she grits her teeth.

"You know what I mean. Both. She'll go mad,"

"I know, I know. But she'll see it eventually,"

She frowns. "What d'you mean?"

"Well, you see," I look at her in mock concern. "Mum tends to read the papers and if you get hitched and get your arse on the Harpies or something," I smile widely. "She'll notice,"

Ginny punches my arm, simultaneously rolling her eyes.

"Oh, haha,"

Evenings were just as pleasant. I'd tend to Beatrice and work on orders in my office while Ginny wrote letters or sometimes went to visit her friends and Harry. I don't have much of social life. Most times it feels as though I'm slipping slowly away, watching everyone live and change. And I stay the exact same way. Coffee, business, dinner, more business. A permanent list that just didn't require much effort.

I had just made a kettle of tea and was getting into something for a fall lineup, when Ginny reappeared. She mostly went to her bedroom if she wasn't heading out for the night. Her hair was tousled and she was still wearing clothes from the work day.

"Fell asleep," she mumbles. Her tiny grey kitten, Gwenog, circles about her legs. Ginny crumples into an armchair. I have two facing my desk, done in simple black suede. They aren't comfortable to sit in at all but she doesn't seem to mind.

The clock ticks in harmony with my quill. I must have come up with a thousand product ideas, but nothing clicks right.

"You look old," Ginny comments. Not sleepily, either which meant she had been watching me.

"I feel old," I say without looking up.

"You do. It's like you're a million miles away from the rest of us, you know."

I lay my quill down to the paper. It's covered with scratch outs.

She continues, "I know why. At least I think so. Obviously part of it is Fred. But there was someone else,"

My eyes meet hers. So like Mum's eyes. The same shade, same searching look. But she held a spark behind them.

"Some guy you were with,"

I snort, breath hitching because I can feel a confession. I can feel a confession wanting to come out but I won't allow it. It aches.

"Who was it, George? Who is he?" her head perks up and she tilts into a sitting position.

"I have work, Ginny," I push it off, pointing to my endless nonsense and scribbling.

"Funny, but no," she gets up, examining the bookshelf.

"Who are you still waiting for?"

"What?" I ask, my voice no more than a shallow whisper. There was a silver framed photograph hidden on that shelf. She would know, then. It would be too hard to hide it from my mother's eyes.

"Fred isn't coming back, but you are still waiting around on your life. Not closing ties, biding your hours,"

She must sense me staring at the picture. I was a fool to leave it laying out. I just couldn't think of enough reasons to bin it. Her hand finds it behind my old stacks of comic books and pulls it out. There must be an inch of dust thick on the frame. But Ginny doesn't need it clean to see it is of Oliver.

I know what it looks like. I'm fifteen, Oliver was already seventeen. He was built and strapping and a good gentleman and all that. I look pale and weedy beside him. But we were happy. Donned in full uniform for a Quidditch match, one that would be the first cup in several years for Gryffindor. His eyes were lit, practically singeing whenever I dared look at the photo. His arm his draped over my shoulders, but his moving, photograph self sometimes stopped to pull me close to him by the waist. A touch that was, sadly, too loving to look platonic.

"Oliver Wood?" her eyes, unblinking, tore from the picture to me.

The silence that grew between us was unfamiliar and unnerving. I guess I never really believed that the day would come when someone would know. Fred knew because I had wanted him to know. Oliver never said a word as far as my knowledge goes. The clock seemed to increase its ticking, the sound of each strike of hand sounding louder and louder…that feeling of falling farther away of what I used to be only deepened.

"It was awhile ago, Ginny," I blurted out, my voice dry and coarse.

"How long?"

"During his last year is when it started," I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "It ended when he left for Puddlemere. It was just too hard so I told him to follow his dreams,"

Stupid choice, too. My conscious pointed out. I ignored it.

"Were you in love with him?"

The question was no doubt a yes. A yes, and I still am. But red warning lights flashed inside my brain. Oliver wouldn't care that I loved him. It was not going to matter how I answered.

"No," I lie. "It just didn't work,"

She guides right past the lie. But Ginny isn't thick. "Did Fred know?"

"Of course,"

She is biting her lips in thought, seeming overfilled by this information. She is staring at the picture with a puzzled expression. Oliver had been a strange part of our family already for years. Charlie had been his idol. Percy had been his roommate. Fred was his friend, and me? I was just his consort. It was a bitter medicine that I swallowed daily. I could throw away my memories. I've thought a lot about that. But perhaps in a sick way I _am_ waiting. Staying single for sign that he may one day need the bit of rubbish that I've turned into.

I can't blink. My eyelids are showing a reel, featuring Oliver holding his strong forearms around my waist.

Ginny settles the frame back onto the shelf. But not where I kept it, hidden amongst the tall shadows of dictionaries and stacks of comics. She places it right at eye level. My heart settles with a sad ache inside my chest.

"You seemed good together,"

"Yeah?" I answer, unsurprised at the voice, filled with bitter sarcasm.

"Yes," she says, not caring at all about my dryness. "If he is who you are waiting for, don't let it keep you, Georgie," Ginny ends it with a yawn and walks sleepily from my office.

The scent of the brandy enters my nose before it touches my lips. I keep the alcohol hidden for when I'm alone like this. It's probably a giant, cliché neon sign that I've totally walked off the deep end of the pond. But I haven't bothered myself about it. The bedroom is large and sparsely furnished, with an armchair and dresser being the lone furniture besides the giant bed in the center of the carpet. Gigantic maroon curtains nearly smother the tiny windows. It is in a tiny cupboard I keep my brandy, sometimes my gin. Depends on business that week. I'm not sure what the shelf was meant for but it sure does the trick as an alcoholic's treasure trove.

It burns in all the right places going down.

I wish I could see more interesting things outside my window, but all I spy are more buildings. I'd love to look out and see a skyline, perhaps London or Paris, or a dimly lit walkway leading out to pastures and holly fields. But I like my work so I'll stay put here, wondering about the maybes in life.

I sometimes wonder if maybe I'm losing it. At first I knew I was okay because everyone else pretended to be okay too. Then when they fell apart, they regained strength and kept on living. I think I skipped all those parts. I think I must have glossed over something, because I'm not okay and I sure don't pretend.

My bed is soft and rich with sheets made of expensive fabrics. But I don't even notice differences as I drip brandy onto the pillowcase. The only item on top of the end table is a small silver clock. I fumble to set down my goblet and rollover uncomfortably.

It is nights when Oliver-thoughts come to visit. Sometimes they are shallow and lustful, enough to make me have to crawl out of my bed and search for a pair of clean pajama bottoms. Others are of regret and sadness. Longing. I never felt such things before. I had always assumed it was a feminine emotion to want a relationship this badly. And not just any one, a specific one. I want what I had at age fifteen. I want it back so dearly that it bleeds like wounds carved into my skin. Fred would be living, Oliver would be with me, and Mum would be Mum- no matter what happened.

In what seemed like a few years, then a few seconds, everything was stolen from me.

Dead twin, dead best friend. A mother you can't bear seeing you because you are the incarnate of her deceased son's corpse. And memories of the only person you ever connected with every way possible. Memories that don't mean shit now.

Wallowing in my self-pity and hatred can be very consuming. Probably why I didn't see a small, little wisp of an owl outside the window. That is, until it began to peck uncontrollably at the glass.

Swearing, I lumber out of bed and let Pigwidgeon inside. He drops a small scroll into my hand.

_George,_

_Hope Ginny's said why, but I need a job with part-time hours. Just on weekends, cause' I know you are busy then and I have classes and training weekdays. Lemme know and send it back with Pig._

_Ron_

I snort and open my side table drawer to tear out a bit of parchment, some ink, and a crumpled quill. I scribble out a reply, telling him to come Saturday and be ready for havoc and misery.

Then I send Pig on his way and lay in my bed. Better prepare myself for the morning, and brace for my own havoc and misery.


	5. No Need To Sleep

Title: Sanity

Rating: Anywhere from PG-13 to R.

Pairings & Warnings: Mainly George/Oliver but contains Fred/Angelina, plus all of the Canon pairings exist. Multi-chaptered. Post-Hallows. Slash and Het. Angst. Language. A lot of drinking. All of those fun things.

Notes: Fred married Angelina Johnson before his death. They had a daughter two days prior to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Summary: It isn't the same, when half of you dies. Not that George is sporting how he's feeling, except to his outlets. When he's asked what he is waiting for, he can't even answer anymore. Could you?

* * *

I don't think depressed people care they are depressed. Or maybe they just don't notice. I notice, I just don't care.

When Ginny told me that Angelina wanted to have a drink with me, I was more than confused. Flabbergasted, there is a fabulous word. I was _flabbergasted_ at this news. But, I went. And here I am in the Leaky Cauldron. It's just as leaky as I can remember, with all the different types of folk tipping back their poisons. My choice? A fancy wine, covered in some foreign label. It's all about the Galleons.

People notice who I am on occasion and tip their hats or wave. It's obviously my shop that crowds half the block, so getting recognized is not unfamiliar to me. Just uncomfortable. I blow it off. I can be confident.

Angelina is coming towards my table. Perhaps I am not so brave as I should be.

"George! I'm so pleased you came," Angelina's smile is wide and shows many brilliantly white teeth. But the emotion doesn't touch her dark eyes.

"Of course," I say stiffly. "I was surprised when Ginny relayed the message,"

Her expression crashes like a Muggle freight train into a mountain side. I splash some wine down my new black robes.

"Why…you don't find it…awkward, do you?" Her hands twist anxiously together. Such nervous behavior.

I stare at Angelina. She's still wearing the diamond and gold wedding ring Fred had purchased for her. It felt odd. It has been well over a year and a half since he placed it on her narrow finger. They had married on New Year's eve. It was quite an interesting night, filled with drinks for everyone but the bride. She had been nearly six months pregnant.

_"I'm actually scared, Georgie. She's glowing almost? Is that even normal? Gods…I've never seen anything, anyone so beautiful,"_

Fred in dress robes, peeking out our kitchen door. I'm beside him, the ring sweaty in my palm.

_"You'll be okay, I promise,"_

"Do you think I'm doing the right thing? I know I love her, but what if something happens to us…or the baby? Times are hard, Georgie boy…" 

Fred almost in a tearful stance. He wobbles to and fro. I rub his shoulders.  
_  
"You love her?"_

He nods.

_"Then it's right,"_

Angelina stares back with her dark, chestnut colored eyes. I know they search my face for something familiar. Like the joking friendship we used to have.

"Sit down, silly," I kick the chair at her.

I can hear her sigh of relief, no matter how hard she tries to hide it from me.

We talk of old things like Hogwarts and the our house team. We wonder together on whether Gryffindor will ever have the cup again, or if Neville Longbottom will be the Herbology professor next term. Hannah Abbott serves us drinks and discusses politics…and how she'd love to own her own pub one day, and stop schlepping slop to such rude and rowdy patrons. It was warm and sensible, something I usually lack on a day-to-day basis.

"Ron's actually pullin his weight at the shop?" Angelina smiles sappily after her fourth glass of my wine.

"Oh, yeah. He comes in every weekend and actually helps with the workday, rather than reverse the process. Such a change,"

She giggles and then hiccups. I pull the bottle away from her line of vision, because Cornelia is in my own mind's eye.

Hannah comes back, but she doesn't seem as chatty.

"Madam Rhodes says she has to turn in now, Angelina,"

I notice the change immediately.

"Right, tell her I'll send the pay soon,"

Hannah shakes her blonde head. "She wants her Sickles now,"

"Who is Madam Rhodes?"

Both women stare at me. Angelina looks ashamed, but Hannah is irritable.

"Cornelia's babysitter…while her mother toils in the pub,"

Hannah slaps the tab on the table and stalks off. I have never seen her acting so angry or crass, but the way she's treated by such drunken wizards…and creatures alike. Several catcall after her as she walks back into the kitchen.

"I need to be away from here…"

Angelina's head is in her hands. I hadn't seen how tired she looked before. I had been right to remove the wine. Alcoholism in public is a cry for help. I drink alone. Therefore, I don't want help. I rub her arm softly and whisper in her ear,

"How long have you been here?"

Her body shakes. "I dunno…my Dad made us leave in July. I have nowhere else to go, I can't ask your family, I just can't."

Maybe it was Mum or just the memories that house would spark. But her reasoning is not incorrect.

"Why did he kick you out?"

"My Mum, she died…she was the only thing keeping us there," So that's why her smile doesn't touch her eyes.

"You can stay with me,"

I notice that she's been crying on me. Tears harden on her lips and the corners of her eyes.

"You don't have the space,"

"I have my room…and the study. You and the baby can sleep in my bed. I'll just move into my office,"

"George, you can't be serious," Angelina looks in disbelief.

"I usually always am," I shrug. "These days. Do you have a bed for Cornelia?"

Turns out that the answer to that one was a sad shake and a no. So I was at the Burrow once again, feeling like an intruder this time. It was on the dark side of midnight. Everything is creepier without the sun. The yard is usually cheerful, but at night it is mysterious. Even the rocking chair on the porch looks like a ghost had just left it. I knock as quietly as I can on the door. Tonight, it is Percy who unlatches it for me. He looks creepier in the dark too.

When I think that way, I laugh in my head.

His glasses are a tad askew. His curly mop of trademark red hair is ruffled and matted to one side.

"I was reading," Percy explains. He fixes his gold, horn-rimmed glasses. I walk past him into the hall. A fire is crackling low in the sitting room, but the candles in the kitchen are completely extinguished.

"Who else is here?" I step into the lighted area, not caring to speak in hushed tones like my brother choses to.

"Well, Mum and Dad. Harry, Ron, and Audrey as well," he says her name with a squeakier whisper.

"Your girlfriend is here?" I look around, expecting to see her but there is no one. "Where?"

"Upstairs in Charlie's old bed,"

There is something in Percy that is making him almost twitch while he is standing still. Usually he's pompous. Usually, he's downright fussy. Now, he's just staring into thin air as though he is seeing something.

"I'm here to get my old baby crib…I guess that would be in the…" I point my wand directly above us. The ceiling has our shadows cast across it due to the poor light of the fireplace.

"Attic?"

I cast the Summoning Charm, and moments later a wooden crib waits on the landing of the staircase. It's blue, so I quickly make it a lilac purple. Pink would be too feminine, even for me. With one more flick. I erase my name and write out Cornelia in an elegant cursive on the headboard.

"Why do you need a bed for her?" asks Percy.

I doubt he needs to know what Angelina confided to me.

"They are staying with me for awhile," I wait for him to question why, but it never arrives. Curious…

Percy walks to the sofa and falls into it. Perhaps he is having a mental collapse. It would make sense, him being so high-strung in both home and work lives.

I mean to ask the problem when he cuts me off.

"Audrey. She's pregnant."

I can't help my jaw dropping. The mere thought of Percy having sex makes me cringe, so naturally I picture that first. But he seems to temperamental it would be callous to mention a joke on intercourse.

"When did you find out?"

He shakes his head back and forth. "Just today…it hasn't been long, but it's real. I can't believe it,"

I can't believe it.

"I need your help George," Percy half-whimpers from his fetal position on the plaid family sofa.

"Me? How?"

"Well," he sits up very slowly. "Fred did it before. Proposed after he and Angelina…"

"Got knocked up?"

Percy seems displeased with my phrasing, but nods.

"I'm not Fred,"

It comes out with more cruelty than I meant to use. Percy is fragile. I can't harm him.

"I know, I'm sorry but I'm sure he asked you what to do?"

Percy's sea blue eyes are wide and glassy. Of course Fred asked my advice. It was what we always did.

He's standing by his wardrobe, playing with the sleeve of a nightshirt that is hanging out of it. Fred never contemplated too long on what to say. I had worried.  
_  
"I hate not knowing what to do. I need to ask her to marry me,"_

"Need to…or want to?"

He grins sheepishly. _"I suppose there is a difference,"_ But his voice was bitter.  
_  
"You know you can love her,"_ I insisted. _"Just ask. It's never too late,"_

I shake my head, hoping that these parasite thoughts will one day drown in my fervent attempts to murder them.

"You gotta just ask Perce." I look directly into him. Right through. "This is your family now, inside of her,"

"I know. My child," he has never seemed so very lost. "Merlin, my child,"

I awkwardly pat his back. My words echo.

"It'll be fine Perce. It always is,"

When I leave with the crib, I nick a bottle of firewhiskey before I head out. I leave money for my Dad in his liquor cabinet. He would definitely know it was I who took it.

The house seems encased in dark shadows as I vanish in the front yard. My head is still reeling from thoughts of babies. Everyone seemed to be having them. There was Cornelia, and then Fleur, and now Percy was going to be a father. That was the weirdest thing I could ever picture. Fred had been a natural. A little awkward when they passed Cornelia to him, but only at first. But I suppose it would work out. Our family isn't unfamiliar to children.

I arrive back to the shop to see my sister fussing over Angelina.

"Just another spot of coffee will fix you," Ginny pours black liquid into a shockingly white ceramic mug.

"I have the crib," I announce quietly. Angelina jumps a little.

"It's beautiful," she admires the color like I knew she would.

"You could have bought a new one," Ginny mumbles. She's sipping some coffee herself, with a weighted look on her face. I knew Harry Potter was probably the cause, so I didn't ask.

"No, it's perfect. Really perfect. All the newer cribs are plastic junk anyway," Angelina says and begins to run her palms over the headboard.

"You've put her name on it,"

"Course," I shrug. "She's my favorite niece,"

"She's your only niece," Ginny snorts.

"Don't always count on that," I smile when I picture Percy and Audrey, and Bill and Fleur. I knew Mum would have a crop of grandchildren in her lifetime. They would be coddled till the point of smother.

I carried up the bed and set it up with sheets from the messy linen closet. It doesn't take long to remove my belongings. I take my secret stash, of course. Angelina would find it eventually if I forgot it behind. Angelina puts Cornelia in the bassinette, and she falls asleep within minutes. Her face is so perfectly peaceful while she sleeps. I wonder what I look like? Probably tight and distraught. I don't remember my dreams often enough in order to worry about them. It is what I see when I wake that I fear. What I see is a lot of nothing.

"She'll wonder about Fred one day, won't she?" Angelina asks me. But she is watching her daughter.

"Of course. We'll tell her whatever she needs to know,"

"You knew so much about him. I have no doubts that you do," she smiles at me, fatigue gripping her eyes.

"He was my twin. We knew a lot about each other,"

We knew everything about each other.

My office is a cramped place. Full of boxes and books, papers and letters. But with an old sofa from the basement and some extra pillows, it's a luxury suite. And of course, the whiskey always helps. It's a bitch going down. They say fire for a reason. But after a few shots, it is as smooth and icy as cold pumpkin juice. I took away the Oliver picture. It now lives in the one desk drawer I never use.

The wireless radio plays some alternative song I've never heard. But it's fucking melodic and I should probably investigate the band. The clock in the hall tolls out six bells.

It's six in the morning and I haven't slept a minute.

Then the radio turns to news.

_"Today is the event that the Magical Games and Sports community has been waiting for. Pre-season matches are taking place all over the world, including Scotland, Ireland, Kenya, Japan, and England. Oliver Wood, who is Captain of Puddlemere United and a international gaming spokesman has several welcoming speeches planned for England's match against the Ballycastle-"_

"Bats." I finish the newscaster's announcement. Oliver was getting quite the reputation. He's had several in his lifetime. Crazy, nut of a house team coach. Lady killer. Quiet recluse. A notable player. A brilliant captain. And now he was Mr. Speeches. I wonder if he knows I'm even alive. I didn't want to see him at Fred's funeral. But he came and sat dead center. He wore a somber expression and even embraced my parents. But he didn't look for me.

Not once. Didn't lay his eyes on me.

I hear Ginny start water for a bath when I drift off to a semi-sober sleep.


	6. Masochism Is Old Hat

Title: Sanity

Rating: Anywhere from PG-13 to R.

Pairings & Warnings: Mainly George/Oliver but contains Fred/Angelina, plus all of the Canon pairings exist. Multi-chaptered. Post-Hallows. Slash and Het. Angst. Language. A lot of drinking. All of those fun things.

Notes: Fred married Angelina Johnson before his death. They had a daughter two days prior to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Summary: It isn't the same, when half of you dies. Not that George is sporting how he's feeling, except to his outlets. When he's asked what he is waiting for, he can't even answer anymore. Could you?

* * *

Time passes quickly when you aren't really living. That schedule I've had…the endless coffee mornings and liquor evenings…they don't stop. I don't stop. Maybe I am finally growing up a little. Maybe I've finally seen the bigger picture of adulthood. Well, if this is it…then just fuck it all and hand me the rope. Hand me rum laced with cyanide. Hand me anything but this.

I prefer winter above all seasons. I like wearing cloaks and scarves and hats. I enjoy walking down an icy boulevard with my hands searching my pockets and snow melting in my hair. The air looks gray and the skies stay grayer. Christmas holidays are usually what everyone is looking forward to, but this year I'm wondering how chaotic it shall get. The family is off to visit Percy and Audrey at their new home in Glasgow. Mum was furious when she learned no one wanted it at the Burrow. I'll admit, I looked forward to attending her kooky crooked Christmas but this year I'm celebrating alone.

Ginny argued for _weeks_.

"Just come to the bloody party. Everyone is going,"

"Exactly the reason I'll be here, at home. Why make them pretend I'm not there, when I can actually fulfill their wishes and just not really be there?"

Angelina didn't want to go without me.

"Sacrificing me, you are," she shook her head. "They'll tear me to pieces asking about you,"

So they probably will. Oh, well. The shop after closing looks like a party to me.

"You sure you don't want to come…?" Ron asked while buttoning his cloak. It was the end of the Christmas Eve workday.

I didn't respond. "Bought your ring yet?" I whisper, close to my brother's face.

He flushes deep scarlet. "I'm workin on that,"

"Too right you are," I say sternly, and kiss Cornelia goodbye on her cheek. Angelina has wrapped her tight in a white, furry coat.

"Tell Uncle Georgie 'Happy Christmas', even though he's a giant dolt,"

"Nice Mum you have there." I tell Cornelia, placing my face beside her tiny, rounded face. She giggles as my breath warms her cheek.

They shove off then, disgruntled that I have escaped. Perhaps a victory dance is in order. I kick on my wireless that stays below the register. A really old song by the Weird Sisters blasts through ancient speakers. A bottle of peppermint liquor, wrapped with a nice Christmas bow, is conveniently hidden behind several business bookings. I don't bother with glasses, and just tip the clear liquid down my throat.

"Just like candy canes," I say to absolutely no one. I've noticed recently that I am enjoying talking to myself more and more. A sign of insanity, probably. Oliver would love to hear that his mere memory has driven me crazy.

Whoever thought that the countertops in my store were so cozy?

By the time the music on the wireless turns from peppy rock to slow, drawn out love songs, I'm singing right along. Bottle raised. Eyes half lidded. The lights, the bright white lights, are multiplying in my glazed over eyes. That's when the front door rattles. Kind of like someone is shaking the handle, even though it is just a simple lock keeping it shut.

"I didn't realize it was snowing," Again, I'm not speaking to anyone. A blizzard is whirling around outside, icing over everything including the front door.

I nearly fall after getting off the counter. Putting on my best tipsy walk, I reach the glass-paned, neon orange entrance.

"Who is it?"

"Oliver. It's me, Oliver, George…"

There is too much blood pounding inside my head. It rushes behind my eyes and a dull throb emerges there.

"Please let me in," he says so softly against the glass, I can barely hear him through the rage of the storm.

I wave my wand at the lock and it pops open. He comes in quickly, and brings half the snow in with him. Flakes are melting fast in his light brown hair. I suppose he wanted in from the cold so badly that he didn't remember the repercussions of coming to see me at all. I question that because Oliver doesn't turn around. His hand stays firmly on the door handle as though he was second guessing this little trip.

"Why are you here, Wood?" I know the formal voice I wanted is dimmed by my semi-drunk state.

"Have you been drinking?" he answers me with another question. Oliver was always doing that when we were together. Part of his stubborn exterior.

"It's Christmas. I'm alone. So, why wouldn't I be drunk?" I give a flimsy laugh and stalk back to my counter.

He watches me sit back down and nurse the bottle. I don't mind his stares. The way I'm flying, I wouldn't mind anything he wanted to do.

"I came because I wanted to see you," he explains. "Percy invited me to the party, but once I got there, Ginny told me that you weren't coming,"

Oliver frowns. It's a familiar look. When we were together, he would make that face after I decided to do something stupid. I had seen it often when I went to sneak with Fred to the kitchens, or tried begging Oliver to slip out with me to the Astronomy Tower. He gave it to me now and in full force mode.

"I didn't feel like going," It wasn't an answer.

He stays quite still, eyes raking over the shop. "So you felt like getting pissed?"

"Yeah, Oliver. It's just something I do,"

My words are harsh and I spit them like venom. The angry part of me smothers any yearning that usually burns for Oliver.

Somehow, this just doesn't surprise him. I wanted to make him hurt. Feel at least a tiny bit of the pain I felt everyday. He obviously didn't have any. Oliver had too many engagements to stop and wonder if he harmed me at all.

He walks very slowly to the counter. I even loathe how he does this, how he looks so understanding and cups my brightly flushed cheek in his hand. I slap his gentle hand away. But Oliver doesn't seem to mind this either. He just increases that face- this pity face, as though I'm some sad sap alone on Christmas Eve. I may be alone, but I am never a sap.

"You shouldn't have come here," my voice slices, wanting to gut him open. No effect. His nearly luminescent green eyes are holding onto me more than his hand ever could.

"I obviously need to be here. And more often. What are you doing to yourself, Georgie?" his face is so close. The elegant curve of his jaw, his long, deeply brown eyelashes. I could attempt count them from this tiny distance. His arms are braced against the counter, pinning me to him. The nickname, it burns me like hot wax to bare flesh.

I slap Oliver right across the face. Finally, he moves away. A scarlet red hand print now smarts that beautifully sculpted cheek.

"Fuck," he whispers, tenderly rubbing the imprint.

"I am not doing anything." I say simply, as though I never touched him. My fuzzy brain is sobering up. Music still plays quietly in the background.

"You never even touched that shit when I knew you," Oliver said, albeit more roughly than he had been speaking.

"When? Last century,"

"It hasn't been that long…" Oliver sighs, as though not quite believing what he just said.

I snort and take to watching the lights twinkle on the giant fir tree in the center of the shop. We sold a load of Christmas products, everything from exploding sweets to dolls that come alive. A lone box of crackers are all that remains on the display.

Oliver is beside me again. Maybe it is the vodka. Or perhaps it is that feeling that only occurs when you watch the fairy lights on Christmas Eve. But I don't move as he wraps his arms around me. One loops beneath the space under my arm and attaches to my waist, the other comes to rest on my hip. His face is so close. I can feel his sharp, unshaven scruff rub against my own smooth cheek. His smell, it's so familiar. Perhaps, too familiar.

The flowers. Soft blue and gold petals that crown a pink center. I can see them blossoming before me on the table, right outside the Burrow. At home. Oliver had sent the flowers on Fred's anniversary. Death day.

"Where did you get those flowers?" I ask, knowing that his eyes are so close to me. I don't look.

"Come again?"

I can feel his throat vibrate on my shoulder.

"You sent flowers to the house…but you didn't come that day. Why didn't you?"

He gulps.

"It was a day for family. I'm not your family,"

"You should have been," I slip out, regretting every second that comes after I spoke. Too bad I didn't die that very minute. But nothing I do is ever convenient.

"Oh, George…I didn't forget you, I never did,"

He never did? It's been a lifetime of me waiting for his return like some bitch damsel, locked away in a tower for her knight. I blanch.

"It's been more than a year. You could have came. You should have the day I saw you carrying down bodies in Hogwarts," I spat. His grip on me loosens.

"So where did you get the flowers?" I add on. It had bothered me since.

"My dad. You know he's a florist, specializing in magical plants and herbs,"

Oliver says this like its so sure. Like he had just mentioned it yesterday over breakfast.

"I never knew that. But you gave me some of those before, didn't you?" My voice is now dry and tasteless like my mouth.

"I did. On your seventeenth birthday. I came up to Hagrid's for a visit, remember?"

That I could recall. The flowers had faded from my mind, but I had remembered the smell. Oliver's scent, they were. My own little multi-colored bulbs- they died when I decided to try to fall out of love with him. Never worked.

"Did you like them?" he asks. His hold over me tightens again, only now I can feel the stiffness of his chest on my back. It's hard, probably muscular. Oliver was into weight training already and the sports just egged it on to a full blown obsession. His breath comes shallow and wraps heat around my neck.

"I did enjoy them." Is all I can think of to say.

Oliver's lips touch my shoulder. They are so soft, I can barely feel them beneath the coarse fabric of my robes. His hands rub my sides. I don't have to look to know that they are calloused and the palms are rough. I can't figure out what he is playing at. Looking to score? Maybe. Coming to whisk me away to my happy dreams? Probably not. But my mind is fuzzy again, and it isn't inebriation. Oliver's lips move away from my shoulder and begin kissing my neck. Not real ones, but feathery ones he used to like to pepper all over my back before we'd move to the bedroom. I wonder if he knows how well I remember that.

"Don't," I hiss. "I can't have you here, like this," I break his embrace completely and get myself off the counter top.

"Why, George? Don't you still love me?"

Oliver looks so pathetic. His face is flushed because I tore away. Chest heaving slightly, eyes dilated in the falling darkness of the candles. A large part of me wants to walk back into his arms, open still because somehow…somehow he just may know that I want to be with him.

Instead, I say the worst lie I've told to date. It's so despicable that I hate thinking of it, I loathed it even as I let it slip from my tongue.

"I never loved you,"

Something shatters in Oliver. Confidence. That understanding comfort that he had entered my shop with was definitely gone. His entire body shudders, and for a second, his amazing green eyes are shimmering. More parts of me want to run forward and apologize. Get on my knees and beg him to love me and want me and fuck me. Stay until morning, stay until New Years- stay forever.

But I say nothing. I am, nothing.

"I loved you," Oliver mumbles in a weak voice. Now it is him who cannot look at me.

"You loved me? You toyed with me for a year then left me! Left me to rot at school, and then when Fred died you didn't even speak to me at his funeral!"

"I- I wanted to…you were crying by yourself, I didn't know what to do,"

I just kept letting my mouth speak. My heart or brain had little to no influence in the conversation.

"You left me behind for your career. Ashamed of what I am and what you are too,"

This seemed to smart him as much as the slap. More so, even. He was in my face, cursing me under his breath.

"I know what I am, George Weasley. You never stopped me, and obviously lied to me every time we were together,"

Oliver was seething. I couldn't be. Nothing was making sense again, and all I wanted was for the insane asylum carousel to just let me off and go back to my bottle.

"I may have, but so did you. What happened to returning to me after you were signed? Never, ever, happened,"

The anger vibe from him froze. "I came today,"

"Too. Late." I hiss from closed teeth. I move away from him as though he was poisonous.

Oliver leaves the shop, I hear bells tinkle in his wake.

I didn't want time to work out what I had just done. It was an act so stupid, even for me. So the vodka came in handy. I drank so fast, vomiting would be an approaching event.

The worst part was that even though Oliver would probably never see me again, he hated me. And that was better than nothing at all.


	7. Perhaps I Have Lost It

Title: Sanity

Rating: Anywhere from PG-13 to R.

Pairings & Warnings: Mainly George/Oliver but contains Fred/Angelina, plus all of the Canon pairings exist. Multi-chaptered. Post-Hallows. Slash and Het. Angst. Language. A lot of drinking. All of those fun things.

Notes: Fred married Angelina Johnson before his death. They had a daughter two days prior to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Summary: It isn't the same, when half of you dies. Not that George is sporting how he's feeling, except to his outlets. When he's asked what he is waiting for, he can't even answer anymore. Could you?

* * *

_Everything was shadowed. I seemed to be the only person in the room. I have never been here before, and it's horrible smell and exterior are good reasons why. I entered through the back door. The latch had just popped open at my touch. Now I am in a living room containing nothing but a fireplace with an empty grate. I have no idea how I can even see my hand before my face._

"Georgie,"

The voice is so close to my ear, I can feel the warm breath of the person who spoke. It ghosts over my body nearly chilling my bones.

"Fred?"

No answer. I scream his name so hard I'm sure my throat as spilt open completely…

"Ugh…"

"You have to get up, George," Ginny taps my forehead with her soft fingertips. "I've opened the store but we need your help,"

"Ugh," I whimper again. The dream lingers behind my eyelids. But I shuffle out after she leaves, wondering for the eighth morning what it was that I did to feel like total garbage. Then I remember. Oliver. I told him that I did not love him, that I basically never did. It was so far from the truth that I can't even believe that it ever happened. That maybe I imagined him completely.

Until I picked up the set of robes I had been wearing that night. It smelled of those strange flowers and their unique scent. Oliver's smell. I refuse to place them in the laundry.

After a lovely scalding hot shower, a contemplation of suicide with a shaving blade, and a half of a cold cup of tea, I amble downstairs and into a madhouse.

Chaos.

"What the hell, Ginny?" I demand, leaning over the cash register which just keeps whirling.

"I don't know. Maybe it's the _after holidays sale_," sarcasm drips from her tone.

"Right, well," I order everyone into lines the best I can, and begin taking orders by my sister. I don't even have the moment to check stock and I really want everyone to leave anyway. Might as well empty the shelves.

After three solid hours of torment, Ginny falls and slumps against the counter.

"I quit,"

"You do not," Angelina enters. She looks just as tired as us, I had forgotten she promised to help. She sets down lunch for three and waves her wand at the front door, locking it.

"You're right," Ginny turns to me. "Fire me. Please?"

"No way then I'll be stuck and you know I hate people so I won't hire anyone else," I use a teasing, baby-like voice at the last few words and she makes a face.

"Money is money I suppose,"

"No, suffering is money," I resist the urge my mouth has to smile.

"Good one," Ginny agrees darkly before taking a large bite of her sandwich. I spy the glimmer on her ring finger and was taken aback for the third time this week. She had finally accepted Harry's wedding proposal, which apparently had been announced a loud over Christmas plum pudding.

Angelina's laughing at some silly thing Ginny said before she leans across the cluttered neon counter. She taps me twice on the hand, snapping me from my own thoughts. I get lost most of the time.

"Jeez, George. Pay attention!"

"Sorry Ang," I try my best to grin apologetically. "What's up?"

She shook her head. "I said I need a few days off to go and visit my Dad. Can you manage?"

"Yeah, we'll just make Ron come in,"

"Oh, he'll love that," Ginny mutters under her breath.

"Great!" Angelina exclaims and picks up her lunch. "Well, I have to feed Cornelia,"

"Remind me to tell our busy busy busy Auror brother we need him weekends and nights, will you?" I say to Ginny, and can feel her eyes on me in a miffed response.

"Like I said, he'll love that. Well, he can't blame me,"

"And yet…" I trail off, smiling as she lands a punch on the back of my shoulder.

We opened for a few hours after lunch, but it wasn't as busy. After stock and clean up, I retired to my study/bedroom to finish orders. I had fully intended on making it a normal, George Weasley Thursday night. A little work, a little whisky and radio, and then pass out near three am. It was going to be rather spectacular. However, right as I closed my day planner, Ginny rapped rather hard on the door.

"You've got post, George. It came just now and the ruddy barn owl wouldn't stop pecking me till I took it!" she griped, knocking again after I didn't answer.

"Post this late? Better not be from Ron," I say suspiciously and retrieve the envelope from her pockmarked hand.

She just shrugs and walks down the hall to her room.

It's addressed with unfamiliar handwriting, so it wasn't family for sure. But when I opened it, an alluring scent drifted right off the parchment. It was tempting to either rub it to my skin or throw it down to the carpet like a vial insect. Instead, I read it.

_George,_

Meet me tonight for drinks at the Muggle bar beside the Leaky Cauldron. I believe the name of it is Star Struck or Star Light…Lamp. Something. I feel we have things from our past to discuss. You can ignore this if you really meant what you told me on Christmas Eve…but I hope it was just the vodka talking.

Oliver

It wasn't the alcohol. It was some kind of monstrous, unruly beast that made me say things because I have no explanation. I have no reason to make myself suffer. Maybe I just like it.

I paced the room for twenty minutes on whether or not to go see him. It truly was a cliché dilemma, to be or not to be and all that. I wanted to be there. I also wanted not to be, so Oliver would take me seriously and choke on my slurred words from last week. But, of course I decided to meet him. More punishment. I'm a greedy boy.

One minute to fasten the cloak, and another to step outside the shop. I pulled out of the dark tunnel and directly in front of the Leaky Cauldron. Directly adjacent was a much more fancier bar, with brightly lit windows and crystal chandeliers that gleamed from within. I looked down at myself and see I'm still in work robes. After a quick swap in an alley, I saunter up the marble steps in a Muggle jacket and trousers. The bar is called Starlit, so Oliver wasn't too far off.

Inside it is even more impressive. The marble steps outside continue the length of the floor. It's almost reflective and shows translucent silhouettes of the well-dressed Muggles. I can nearly blend in, and apparently, so can Oliver.

I see him in a similar look. Clean and crisp white shirt and tie. Dark dress pants that pull tightly against well-toned thighs. He looks like he would feel exactly the same. But I wouldn't know, I haven't touched him since I was seventeen.

"You came," was his greeting. He actually seems genuinely surprised.

"Why this place?" I look around us, but no one else stares back. Like we are ghosts mingling among the Muggles, not just wizards.

"It's neutral. Unfamiliar. And I love the atmosphere," he recites simply. When I don't answer, Oliver leads me away from the atrium and over to small table. It feels farther away from everyone else. Scarlet satin curtains cover the giant neo-French style window. Two slender candles beneath glass basins glimmer between us. It feels strangely discombobulating and very different coming from Oliver. I can feel my palms sweat as they rest on my lap.

"You are here, so I presume we are forgetting Christmas Eve?" he questions over the lacy white table.

"I suppose. I wanted to apologize, though, for hitting you. I needn't have done that," I admit, albeit with little embarrassment.

"I pray it was the vodka?" he smirks.

I shrug. "I think that was a large part," It was quite a lie.

"You always used to fight with me about drinking," Oliver chuckles and ironically sips a glass filled with amber colored wine.

"Right, then Fred would steal or already have some hidden somewhere. It made the post-Quidditch parties something spectacular for the Gryffindors,"

"If only McGonagall knew,"

"I think she did. She just wanted us to ante up one on the Slytherins' parties,"

I choke back a laugh as Oliver adds some wine to my glass, too. "I can't see her condoning underage drinking,"

I raised my crystal goblet to him. "You never know," We awkwardly drink a strange toast together. I'm not sure what for. Underage drinking, parties, Professor McGonagall, or just to our stupid youth in general. Either way, the alcohol warmed me in a way that laughter used to.

"How is your family?"

I swirl the contents of my drink around. "You saw them a few nights ago. How were they?"

Oliver leans back in his chair and it creaks a little. "Well, Percy was positively punch drunk over his wife's pregnancy. Fleur looked so swollen I thought her water would probably break on the dinner table. Your mother kissed everyone in sight and sung along with the radio. And best of all was Harry's proposal to your sister," he laughs at the memory. "I thought for sure she was going to slug him,"

"She did, just in private."

This makes him laugh, and I had forgotten that I used to love the sound. Oliver extends his hand over the tiny space between us, and for a moment I think he is going for the half empty wine bottle. Instead he places our palms together and entwines our fingers. His are calloused and imperfect, as always, from his profession. Mine aren't matching anymore. But he doesn't seem to notice and starts rubbing the back of my wrist with the pad of his thumb.

"You seem very tired, George,"

"I work late…it's hard managing the store by myself, even if I have people helping."

"No one knew it better than Fred, eh?" Oliver's voice has regained that confident comfort that I had so ruthlessly shattered a week ago. He says this to me quietly, as if Muggles know who he was.

"He was brilliant. It's like a part of me left when he died," I feel my throat close a little. I haven't talked about that to anyone. Well, to myself. But that's just because I'm a complete nutter.

"I know…actually, not really," he tries not to laugh at himself. "But I can relate. My mother died right before we were all called to fight,"

This was a little unnerving. He had never mentioned that.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"We _had_ to fight. I was not going to let them get to me like that," he said with a dark, and slightly ferocious undertone. "So I told my Dad to close up his greenhouses and go stay with my Mother's sister in Edinburgh. I came to get him right after,"

"I thought…" My voice dies. Guilt creeps into my body. I had blamed Oliver for not looking at me while he was carrying bodies, and his mother had just kicked it? I feel like the worst sort of person.

"I'm sorry for what I said," I say softly, although there is nothing I can do to revoke Christmas Eve. "All of it,"

Oliver brings my hand to his lips, and kisses it. I swear sparks flew from my skin. I have no idea how no one else seems to notice this.

"I just couldn't believe why you were so angry at all," he shrugs and takes to rubbing my wrist again.

That terrible beast within me. It really isn't being fair to Oliver.

"You don't know? How do you not?" I ask incredulously.

"George," he says, becoming alarmed.

"You haven't sat with me like this since I was a kid," I yank my hand away. In the process of doing so, my glass falls and spills wine onto the Persian rug beneath the table.

No one notices us ghosts.

"You wanted me to live my dreams! You said it yourself. You knew I'd be away, you knew I wouldn't see you a lot,"

True, it was all true. But all I wanted to spew were lies.

"I didn't mean that."

"That's selfish," he hissed, glaring at me. "Another lie you've told me,"

Oh, Oliver. If only you knew.

"I never thought you would even make it with Puddlemere,"

"That's really lovely coming from you." I wanted him hurt, but it wasn't working yet. "Did you ever have faith in me?"

"Not even when you scraped a win for Gryffindor,"

His eye bulge a bit, looking appalled. "Oh now we are back at school, yeah? Well isn't that just completely childish,"

A few Muggles glance our way. The dead were rising in their posh saloon.

"Me, childish? Did you expect me to wait for you?"

"No, but I expected more than what I got,"

Somehow, we are both standing. His eyes, usually so filled with happiness and mirth in that verdant color, were angry, and confused. Perhaps even hurt. All because I didn't know up from down. Right from left. I could help anyone but me, and yet I was acting so damn selfish that I felt the sin sting me. I would love if I could just admit that I needed help. But I didn't want it.

"As if I owe you."

"You don't owe me…but we spent so much time together…I never felt more connected with anyone. I still don't see in other people what I see in you," his voice is so quiet, probably so people aren't getting the completely right idea about our conversation.

"We had something, you are right," I admit, but louder than Oliver.

"Had?" his lips deepen their frown.

"You ruined it, and I did love you, but I let you go. So, go," I said as though the idea was simple instead of totally insane.

"What has happened to you?" he looks almost apologetic, like I'm some disfigured stranger.

"I am this. I always was. Fred's death just left me alone without the better parts." I stand there awkwardly, feeling his eyes burn every inch of my face.

Oliver steps towards me, for what, I don't know.

"I'll go then," I mumble and grab my cloak from the chair. Muggles stare at me as I pass through the bar and head for the front door. No one calls me back. I doubt he would want me to return anyway. The January air is bitter and unyielding. Snow immediately clings to melt on my face and in my hair, but I can't feel the cold. People in evening wear waltz in and out of the place but none are Oliver.

A witch with long, blonde, braided plait comes stumbling out of the shielded Leaky Cauldron.

"Hey, it's George!" Hannah Abbott shouts across the street. "Come in,"

"I can't, it's a little late-" my voice is rather quiet. I wonder how I can even let myself speak after that disaster.

Then Angelina and Ginny come out of the pub. "George! Get in here, Fleur's had the baby and we're all going to see it,"

Happy news always follows sad news. I wonder what other wreck will follow me soon enough.

* * *

I make him rather depressing, don't I? Oh well, he's going though dark times. I never write end notes, but I have been noticing people either adding alerts to my story or even favoring it. Review, if you please. I always get alerts but never, ever, reviews! Even if you hate me. Then I can laugh too. ;)

Peace.


	8. Amethyst Picnic Tables

Title: Sanity

Pairings & Warnings: Mainly George/Oliver but contains Fred/Angelina, plus all of the Canon pairings exist. Multi-chaptered. Post-Hallows. Slash and Het. Angst. Language. A lot of drinking. All of those fun things.

Notes: Fred married Angelina Johnson before his death. They had a daughter two days prior to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Summary: It isn't the same, when half of you dies. Not that George is sporting how he's feeling, except to his outlets. When he's asked what he is waiting for, he can't even answer anymore. Could you?

* * *

It's been three months since my episode with Oliver. I've had a lot of hours, days, weeks- to reflect on the moment. I've come to the proper conclusion that I'm few Gobstones short of a set. But all of that is my personal nonsense, and that isn't what this twenty-seventh day in April is all about. Because this day is the very one that Harry and Ginny are getting married.

They fought like cats and dogs all winter on when to set a date. Apparently, proposing had been Harry's extent of the job. He was reluctant to figure out when to go about actually _having_ the ceremony. But when it was announced Ginny was to be picked up to train to be on the next year's back-ups for the Holyhead Harpies, they rushed full steam ahead. They were third in the family to be married within these short three years or so. The only ones left now were Charlie, Ron, and me. Charlie was more likely show up naked and handcuffed in the Canary Islands than he would with a girl and a ring. I'm hopeless and Ron-, well Ron is special. Gotta give him time.

It wasn't a big wedding, but I could tell Mum was thrilled at having something new and exciting to plan. Just the family was invited, and yes, that included Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood. Although, when she arrived this morning she mentioned some man named Thorn would be arriving as her date. That will be just something I _have_ to see. But all the other important guests are merely regulars to the messy, confused, panic switch that is the Burrow in Ottery St. Catchpole.

I can't be much of a help or a hindrance, so I basically wander around until the show begins.

In the living room, Angelina is playing babysitter. Cornelia is watching Victoire play with a few dolls with very wide eyes and expressive interest. A one month old Molly is sound asleep and cradled in a shockingly pink swaddle close to Angelina's chest.

"I knew they would stick you with baby watch," I smirk at her from the entrance way.

"Oh, hush. I don't mind. The alternative is slaving away either cooking or some sort of decorating," she stops to adjust Molly. "Both of which I never mastered,"

I shrug and enter the room, bending down to where Cornelia and Victoire are playing.

"Ginny said she wanted no fuss, but she told Mum…so she gets whatever fuss she asked for,"

Angelina snorts.

Quite suddenly, there is a large commotion by the front door. Ron enters looking flushed and a little over zealous.

"Ron!" she hisses. "Molly is sleeping,"

My endearing, dolt of a younger brother slowly shuts the front door behind him.

"Sorry. I just had to make a quick escape before Charlie and Bill make me set up that dreadful flower archway,"

"Dreadful? I think it's rather lovely," Hermione says as she descends from the staircase. Her eyebrows are set close together in their usual, 'Wow I love that idiot' position.

"Oh...well, it looks okay. Just heavy,"

"You _are_ a fully qualified Auror with a wand, aren't you?" she asks with amusement, turning away from him and coming into the living room.

"Right…well,"

"Your mother is looking for you out back," Hermione adds over her shoulder.

"Alright," Ron turns to leave but instead brings a small velvet box out of his pocket and holds it high above his head. He looks straight at me and mouths, 'I've got the ring!' and then leaves quickly through the kitchen.

Angelina and I both start laughing, and Hermione's confused expression only deepens our laughter further.

A little past one in the afternoon, the miniature wedding begins. Luna and Hermione act as bridesmaids in dark, violet colored dresses. The flower arrangement Ron had complained of was actually quite amazing. Roses, tulips, and all kinds of wildflowers from bluebells to daises were woven around silver metal. Beside Harry was Ron of course, looking irritable and even itchy in his new robes. I had to smack his hand several times during the ceremony. Harry had chosen me as second witness, and for what reasons I'll never fathom.

The guests are seated out in the warm sunlight on uncomfortable looking white washed chairs. Mum and Dad in front, along with Bill and Fleur and Percy and Audrey. You know, all the married folk. Charlie and his long-legged, blue eyed buxom date. Angelina was in the back with the little girls, Neville Longbottom, Hagrid, and Lee Jordan. I was perplexed as to why he was invited, but Angelina had slapped me on the arm and mumbled about him being her date. Well that seemed all well and fine, considering Luna's Thorn was at least six foot seven with waist length, dark, inky black hair.

A perfect picture they all make.

It seemed like too short of a time when the aged wizard raised his wand over Ginny and Harry's entwined fingers. I had never realized that things were moving by so fast, yet again. I was missing things.

"Do you, Harry James Potter take Ginerva Molly to be your wife and wedded partner for all of this eternity?" The tiny old man asked Harry.

"Yes, I do." Harry answered him, but his eyes were focused solely on my sister.

"Finally, do you Ginerva Molly Weasley take Harry James to be your husband and wedded partner for all of this eternity?"

Ginny's eyes were glassy and she hadn't blinked in forever. I watched her facial muscles twitch as she tried to prevent any tears from escaping.

"Yes, I do,"

"Then I shall now declare you bonded for life," The wispy man pushed his wand tip into their joined hands as golden stars erupted from it. Birds of paradise and multicolored stars began to twitter and fall around the couple. I could hear Hagrid and Mum weep in unison from the tiny crowd.

"Congratulations, Gin," I wrapped my arms around her a few minutes later.

"You'll be next," she mumbles into my jacket. "Just you wait,"

Her tears are falling, free of any restrictions she had tried to place on them before.

Everyone was hugging, and planting kisses on the bride and groom or their significant others.

As we all walked over to the house, where the reception would take place, Ginny shouted about her resignation from the shop and I'm pretty sure Ron told Hermione there was something he had to discuss with her later. My family keeps growing and while I love it, I hate it. I wonder often what Fred would be doing or saying in a lot of situations, and I hate that even more. I second guess everything because I think I should be acting like Fred. But I'm not him, even if my mother still thinks so.

The party was underway immediately under beautiful fairy lamps and candles in the backyard. I found our old, scrubbed up wooden table and sat propped up against it until a familiar voice carried over the freshly trimmed hedges.

"…I know I missed it all, but since I bought a gift, I know Ginny and Harry would appreciate me coming anyway,"

"Oh, it's fine Oliver. Just set it down and help yourself to champagne, dinner won't be long,"

My mother was greeting Oliver Wood, who was late to my sister's wedding. Funny, Ginny had (purposely) forgotten to mention it. As much as it makes sense in my nutter brain to run off and hide, he knows I am here. I wonder if he can feel it like I can? His very sense of smell and being is twirling in the late-afternoon breeze like a hidden toxin. I watch him mingle with my family from a distance, knowing he will come to me. It is just a matter of minutes and hours, like with everything else.

I was called seconds later for dinner.

We eat at rounded tables, draped in dark, plum colored clothes and white lacy napkins with silver holders. Beside me is Charlie, his date, named Isabella, Neville, Ron and Hermione, and right next to me on the other end is Oliver. I glare my way through the table across from us, which is where Ginny sits, smirking away at this obviously orchestrated arrangement.

"Isabella, are you originally from Romania?" Hermione asks, doing her best to be polite and conversational.

"Oh, no, I was born there, but raised here in England," Isabella answers, looking around uncomfortably at the rest of us.

From there, everyone starts discussing countries and foreign wizard government. Ron and I had never been on more of the same ground. Both of our heads were lolling on the palms of our hands-, trying not to fall asleep at the table.

Dinner is paused when the elegant, purple and white cake is brought out on a pedestal. We toast to Harry and Ginny, everyone wishing different things upon them. Some hope for their wealth, or their happiness, or their fertility (that was Mum's-, typical), and then finally to their lives together. Charlie leaves the table to start the music for the dancing part of the reception, and that is when I feel it.

Oliver's hand on mine as he nods towards the secluded picnic table where I had been hiding from him earlier. Without any bit of a grudge or malice in his eyes at all.

How can he be so fair to me? So kind? Dear Oliver, I don't deserve you. You don't need this broken man.

We walked, I in front of him, through the hedges. I sit with my legs close to my chest, right on top of the table's surface. Oliver sits slowly onto the bench, his knees open while resting his arms.

It's near dusk now and even the sky is within the wedding's color theme. An amethyst backdrop into black and the silver gray of the moon. The candles that we had been dining under have followed us here and settle warmly above our heads.

"It's been a long time, hasn't it?" he asks me, but he is watching his shiny, dragon hide boots.

"I suppose,"

"I didn't mean it…I just didn't think you wanted me to try to find you,"

"You're right. For awhile, I didn't,"

Oliver's shaking a little but it isn't even cold. I used to be able to read his emotions like a battered Quidditch pamphlet, but now he was as rough as a steel block. You could see more feelings in a brick. I want nothing more than to be his again, yet I have no way to communicate these feelings. Like I've lost my way to express too.

"I know something different is now between us. Things are not at all what I have expected…but I still feel the same way about you,"

There he was again- displaying love on his sleeve when his face said nothing.

"I don't want to doubt that,"

He finally looks at me, stony and emotionless. "Then don't,"

I find myself not meeting his gaze now, and instead look towards the amazing skylight. I predicted us meeting here, of course, but I wish I knew what to say. I know that I have a lot held inside and it was through a lot of patience and practice that I could bury myself in alcohol, self-pity, and stupid jokes. Oliver knew what was wrong, at least a little, but I can't ask him to fix it when I can't even tell him what I feel. I'm going to shatter.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks curiously.

"You. Me. Fred. Stars," I smirk as I add in the last bit. It wasn't a lie, those three things come across my mind at every moment. The stars were rather thick across the velvet like sky, so it wasn't hard to include them in thought.

Oliver stands, and suddenly his emotional wall crumbles a little.

"I feel like I'm wasting time, waiting for something to come along and happen. Like I'm losing my mind," he is speaking directly upwards but it is meant for me.

He makes a beeline for my secluded, safe spot on the table. I can feel his arms wrap up my waist and suddenly his eyes burn everywhere on me like a million fireflies. His hand tilts my chin back and Oliver hasn't been so close in decades of time. His smell swallows me whole and I can't even hear the music at the reception anymore.

"Make me feel that I'm not wasting time," he says this, with so little distance between our lips that his touch mine as he speaks. We collide then and for a moment all I can think of are stars and how he makes me see them as I close my eyes. His hand that once held my chin drops but then reappears in my unkempt and shaggy ginger colored hair. Oliver's chest is at my knees, which I hold so tight as I am shaking myself nearly off the table. He grasps my hands and runs them over his sides. Everything begins to feel the same, and it clicks like something I've lost. The missing piece.

Oliver kisses me that way for awhile before he breaks, breathing heavily into the early Spring air.

The burning heat has only moments to fade from my skin before he takes me gently by the waist and pushes me back against the table. His hips meet mine in that overly familiar and yet awkward placement. His lips touch mine again and the fiery, white-hot feeling comes back like it had never left. Perhaps it was always there, and I just never wanted to explore it. It never drove me out of my liquor evenings hard enough to want Oliver. And while that sickens me, I can't be bothered.

Oliver leaves my red and swollen lips to form a contusion by my throat.

As a small, guttural moan manages to leave me, I see her.

He can't see her. She's in her best robes, emerald green with a jeweled clasp. Her flaming red hair with grey streaks is pulled up high and glossy on her head. Eyes of deep brown, full of accusation, anger, and perhaps the tiniest amount of pain. Of torment.

My mother.

Why should I be queer when Fred is dead? That could be her only argument.

Oliver must see my panic, because he lays off the lovebite and turns to face the dragon.

"George…how…oh!"

It's all she can say. She flees from the scene like someone was murdered, with her hand pressed tight across her mouth. Like she was going to be sick.

And then I lean over the table and vomit, and I didn't even drink today.

* * *

Another endnote. This was my favorite chapter so far. Actually, I hated them all until this one. I do that alot even when I am writing my own stuff and not fanfiction...sigh. Anyway, if anyone is holding back a comment, let it out. XD.


	9. And So I Exploded

Title: Sanity

Rating: Anywhere from PG-13 to R.

Pairings & Warnings: Mainly George/Oliver but contains Fred/Angelina, plus all of the Canon pairings exist. Multi-chaptered. Post-Hallows. Slash and Het. Angst. Language. A lot of drinking. All of those fun things.

Notes: Fred married Angelina Johnson before his death. They had a daughter two days prior to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Summary: It isn't the same, when half of you dies. Not that George is sporting how he's feeling, except to his outlets. When he's asked what he is waiting for, he can't even answer anymore. Could you?

* * *

It was once upon a dream that I allowed myself to live again, even if it was just a moment. But with this time lapse, I have forgotten again. You would think I'd remember, but now I believe I've gotten worse. Days and nights are exactly the same thing. My shop opens only on weekends, and although Angelina demands answers as to my behavior, I don't answer. I have no answers to the questions she asks.

"Are you okay?"

I don't know. Probably not.

"Maybe you should see a healer?"

"Did you eat?"

"George, why won't you talk to me?"

I feel so obliged to help her. Lee Jordan has had her fancy all month, and I've taken care of Cornelia while her mother was off on dates. It's the only thing I'll rise out of bed for. Probably because she has Fred's eyes, you know. Like looking into tiny mirrors. I desire to take care of them but I know I cannot. It was Fred's place and now it may be Lee's. No one else requires me around. They are married or successful or even both. I hate to be ridden with dramatic angst, but maybe it's necessary for my life story. Maybe one half can't live without the other.

My room is messy. Books, papers, and comics are scattered all over the floor. Plates and cups, some still filled with whisky or tea, line up on the shelves. My bed looks more like a nest, now that I am really looking at it. My hair matches the nest like appearance, though, so it is like a set. Worst of all, are the letters. So _many_ letters from two very different people. And I haven't answered a single one.

_George,_

I'm so sorry about what happened with your mother. If I've caused upset in your family…I don't even know what to say. Please, write back.

My son,

I can't even begin to process what happened the night of your sister's wedding. Oh, I hope the family doesn't know. Does his_ family know what you both are? Oh Merlin, I've been beside myself…_

Georgie,

Why don't you answer me? I hope you are okay. I would feel better if I saw you. Maybe I can visit this week? Let me know by the fourteenth.

I love you.

?

I've told your father. He had nothing to say.

George,

Where the hell are you? Have you told anyone what is going on?

I never changed my name to a question mark. Maybe I have been right all along, she doesn't know who I am. Perhaps she never did.

Good, neither do I.

All of these little letters are stowed under my bed and pillows. It's uncomfortable to crunch as you sleep, but you learn not to care.

I was mildly offended that Oliver never just came without an invitation. He knew something was wrong, but he wasn't going to risk any career moves on that. I guess I don't expect more than that from him.

I'm having elation at discovering another bottle, half-filled, beneath my mattress, when Angelina knocks on my bedroom door.

"I've left Cornelia with Hannah. She's not a bad babysitter after all," she laughs a little, but gets no response. "Well, if you need me I'll be with Lee,"

I say nothing. Just stare at my door in a weird sort of response. I hear her walk away after a minute, defeated. Maybe everyone thinks that I don't know what I'm doing. But I know exactly every move that I make. I don't plan or conceive these ideas in an angry, spiteful way. I'm not pissed at anyone but me. I've let myself wallow too much in ideas that never worked out. Pasts that cannot be revisited. But the pressure to succeed and be there for everyone won't let me figure out what to do. I never think clearly and it's like I never breathe properly.

So, I do miss Fred. I want to talk to someone about him, just once in awhile. To remember what it was that we miss so badly. I want Oliver to know that whatever insane things I say are never true. I want my mother to know that it's ok that he died and I survived. He isn't angry at me, so why should she be? I may love a man but that doesn't make me any less of a son than I was before. Does it?

Or perhaps I ask too much. Expectations are evil things that wait in the shadows to prove you wrong.

The afternoon feels like a cold, numb blur. I don't shed any tears. I don't really think that is worth much anymore. My head whirs and spins on a sweet high, my stomach burning but that feels okay to me. It feels more normal than anything else has felt in awhile. Outside, I can see some low and dark rain clouds approaching Diagon Alley. The air is thick even though it's merely May. With the window open, I can hear excited shoppers running under cover in a frenzy. Thick sheets of rain smack against the gutters and I can hear the water chasing down.

"It's eating you alive and I can see it in your stare," I sing aloud, some words to a song I've barely heard before. The ceiling spins but I don't feel sick at all.

"I would sit with you all night…if I thought you would even care," the melody trails off in my head and I can't recall where it ever even came from.

_Tap. Tap._

Another owl at my window sill.

It flies through the room and sits on the arm of one of my chairs. The small envelope slides down the wood and rests on the seat. Before I can even recognize the owl it leaves as quickly as it arrived.

_George,_

You have put this family into a right state. I don't know what has erupted this behavior from you. If you cannot talk about your problems like a proper adult, than perhaps we should call in a professional.

Mum

So now she could see I was mental, but I needed a Healer, did I? It couldn't be half her fault or even a little. I am a proper adult, if she thinks she is one. I keep all my problems right under my skin too, and lash out at those I need. I'm so proper it has knocked her for a loop.

As I stand, my knees buckle. I have to fight. I have to somehow convince her of all these ideas that I have thought of in my incapacitated stupor. Whether Mum understands them or not is none of my damn concern.

Before I can even be dampened by the impending rain, I'm outside the Burrow.

I'm pushing my way through the back gate.

I'm shoving my body inside the house.

And all while I can't even seem to breathe. Pain is now spreading uncomfortably around my chest. It's shooting like stars through my veins. Is that even sensible, I'll never know. I hate metaphors and similes.

"George, what the hell are you doing?"

Mum. Finally.

She's sitting in the living room. All curled up. A wool blanket patterned in a shabby sort of plaid is tucked in tightly around her. A cup of warm tea rests on the end table adjacent to a few newspapers. Feet propped up on what seems to be a new ottoman. How comfortable. She's writing me notes that feel like corkscrews while she's reading romance novels. I want to hurt my mother but I don't know how.

The pain is pressing like weights inside my lungs.

"I hate you…Mum, I hate you,"

I watch her face change. Surprise becomes a stiff concern.

I clutch my side. I'm on fire. "You never looked at me the same after Fred was killed…everyone else, they treated me the same. Why can't you?"

She gets out of her warm little nest. Same sensible Mum in a beige skirt and green sweater. Pale stockings with quite a few runs in the calves; to hide her legs that she's never been fond of, she's said so herself.

"You are my son, George, I love you,"

"I don't care about that, you don't wanna look at me, you don't wanna see Fred,"

I watch her hesitate. She hasn't stared me straight in the eye for more than a second in so very long.

"It's just hard!" she twists her wrinkled, rough hands together. "You are so like him, but yet you aren't. I can't look at you and not see Fred in you,"

"You can look at Cornelia," I spit, sweat now running down my skin. If this is how I am to die I don't think I want it.

"She's my first grandchild,"

"And Fred's daughter!

"That's different," she mumbles, looking nervously around the floor.

"How…how- how can you say that?"

"George, you look ill," she interrupts me, and swipes her too-warm hand across my forehead. "You better lie down, have you been drinking?"

Her eyes narrow.

"I always drink! Haven't you noticed, Mother? I've become the family faggot and the family drunk all in a matter of moments, isn't it just splendid,"

Her entire face softens and she grabs my wrists. Maybe to feel if I have a pulse. Its possible I've just died and I haven't realized it. This feels like hell.

"Oliver's _persuaded_ you to be this way. He's awful and has too much stock in publicity and politics. He has made you so wayward-,"

Now I interrupt her. "Don't blame him. It's my fault, always mine. I love him and nothing will change that even if forever passes by," I spurt out every word and mean each of them. All while white-hot knife blades seem to stab my sides.

Mum looks so confused.

"You blame me,"

"I blame myself," I utter. She looks so pathetic watching me crumble in her arms.

"Maybe I couldn't look at you, Georgie. Maybe I never wanted to know my son had died. It was always my worst fear…"

I can't talk. I tremble against her, my limbs feeling limp. Rain pounds harder than ever outside the house. In the distance there must be a leak because the dripping noise is incessant in the background.

"If you want Oliver…we can't ever stop you. We can only love you,"

I'm writhing now, my insides exploding. She's screaming my name. We fall together, down to the dusty floor. A weird liquid is dribbling from my mouth and I soon taste the copper flavor of blood and something else like spit. My head is raging so that everything sounds like fright trains and no words are making sense to me. I don't understand what has happened but I know it isn't good.

I wasn't exactly wrong about Mum. But I was completely wrong with myself.


	10. Time Burns Quicker Than Wax

Title: Sanity

Pairings & Warnings: Mainly George/Oliver but contains Fred/Angelina, plus all of the Canon pairings exist. Multi-chaptered. Post-Hallows. Slash and Het. Angst. Language. A lot of drinking. All of those fun things.

Notes: Fred married Angelina Johnson before his death. They had a daughter two days prior to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Summary: It isn't the same, when half of you dies. Not that George is sporting how he's feeling, except to his outlets. When he's asked what he is waiting for, he can't even answer anymore. Could you?

* * *

Waking up feels much like being reborn.

Wherever I am, there is sunlight. It's warm and pleasant on my face. In fact, I feel so very comfortable laying down like this. It's very possible that I'm dead now, because I don't sense any pain. My skin is numb and when I try to stretch my fingers out I can barely feel movement in them. The light, wherever it was issuing from, is beautiful in front of my closed eyes. Violent orange that flickers to yellow and white. Eternity like this wouldn't be so bad. But now I can hear them talking.

"Well, he hasn't shown too many signs of not recovering. Plenty of brain activity…his body just refuses to wake up, no matter how many potions we try," A female voice was speaking. It was a cool, clear voice that made her sound like a very stern lady.

The second was a male. It was an uncertain, worrisome voice. "Well, his mother visits everyday demanding new methods,"

There was silence, perhaps the woman was rubbing her temples in irritation, or looking at me, wondering what to do.

"Well then we better make our way to Violet's office if we want to figure this out,"

Maybe the male was now nodding in agreement. They both left and I heard the click of the door shutting.

I was in a hospital room. It wasn't clear at first, but now the sensations seemed real. The bed beneath me was scratchy and stiff. I ran my hand down my side and felt the hospital gown I knew was probably bright green in color. Even the smell- that overly clean and lemony sterile scent. The Healer's shoes had squeaked against the spotless linoleum floors. But I didn't want to open my eyes. Opening them would just confirm that I had, indeed, pushed myself right into the loony bin.

It was hard to remember exactly what I did or said. I can recall fighting with my mother, I can picture her in all colors of emotions, from anger to despair, to guilt, and then to panic. And I had caused every one of those to come out on her face. A part of me is amazed that in ten minutes I accomplished what I had thought of doing for a year. And maybe I am a little pleased. I don't feel quite the same anymore. That overwhelming anguish has faded. It is not gone, just lighter. I can tell it is there, always present. But it didn't swallow me.

My eyes open and the light burns right into my retinas. I was correct on being in the hospital. The room is drab. A dresser is by a small linen closet, and a painting of pears in a basket is on the opposing wall from the large, open window. The door is shut, and a sign about hand washing spells glares at me from a hook on the back. A vase of weird looking flowers is beside my bed. I go to smell them, or perhaps read the card, when the smell hits me first.

They are from Oliver. That strange combination of colors are as bold as brass. There isn't any note attached, but I don't have to confirm anything to be sure.

I sit up in the bed. It's a raised mattress with huge silver bars around it, confining me like a baby in a crib. The hospital gown makes me feel cold even though sunlight engulfs the entire room. Something cuts into my wrist as I move my arm, and then I see that it is a paper band.

_Weasley, George Gideon  
Spell Damage  
Ent. April 31st, 2000_

After that there is a code of numbers and letters. I wonder what day it is now. How long has my mind been left to wonder? If I was comatose, I would have never been awoken so suddenly and easily, unless these so called potions had worked after all. They wouldn't like me to get up even though I now desperately wish to be elsewhere. Not in my flat-, but home. In mine and Fred's old room. And I wanted his furniture there even if he isn't there to use it. It's a weird desire but it feels better than this joint. No one can feel at home in the weirdo ward.

The metallic doorknob clicks and it swishes open. A woman with dark hair and even darker eyes walks in. She's a Healer, dressed in their lime green robes with the signature bone and a wand cross embalm stitched above her breast. She looks at me in surprise, but she doesn't allow her stunned look to last too long.

"I'm pleased to see you awake, Mr. Weasley,"

It was the woman who had been in here earlier. Her voice was as calm as before and was reminiscent of Minerva McGonagall. Her lips were even pursed into a tight, thin line.

"What day is it?" I asked while she began to examine my body in multiple ways. Looking into my eyes, stretching out my arms, and making me lean forward. I didn't mind, the muscles felt good to move.

"It is May second,"

Fred's death day. Ironic that I would wake on the second anniversary. Has it been two years? Really? How have I missed so much of this world? Suddenly I feel so tired like I haven't slept in decades.

The Healer woman opens a clear vial with blue liquid inside. "Drink this, and we'll have to get you to eat something. I have to contact your family,"

I down the bottle. It has virtually no taste but feels very thick in my throat. As she leaves, hunger pains claw at my stomach. It's been a century since I have actually wanted to eat.

But instead of the Minerva-like Healer coming back through my door, in comes my mother. Her face is tired. Her hair was frizzed and looked like she hadn't cared for it in a few days. She had seemed so enthused to enter but now that she could see that I was really there, she wanted to escape. Of course I know that whatever I had said to her that night was terrible. It was spiteful and cruel. But it was also the truth, and that just made the cuts hurt so much worse.

"They said they'll be feeding you soon," she tells me while examining the painting of the basket of pears.

I adjust my pillow against the headboard so I can lean back. My arms lay limp and my hands are folded. A very neutral way to sit in one's hospital bed. So why she's afraid to burn herself looking at me is a mystery, unless she is actually guilty. During my entire childhood I (and Fred) always went through the same cycle with her. We would misbehave and then be punished. But now I had misbehaved in ways that were no longer reprimandable, at least by her. I was, you could say, out of her jurisdiction. I had experimented with evil in the world, like alcoholism and homosexuality, and perhaps even insanity.

But I didn't feel the need to find a bottle or claw my own skin off. I'm sure it couldn't be so simple but I could get the hang of sobriety.

"I know that," I answer finally. "You and I both know that painting is pointless so stop marveling at it,"

She smiles an awkward grin, stiff and uncomfortable. Like we're strangers. Maybe we are.

"It's a nice room, isn't it? A beautiful view," she pushes back the curtain even though it's not even in her way.

"Fred died today,"

"I know,"

"I miss him,"

"So," she gulps. Something stifles her throat. "do I,"

My mother turns to look at me. I've never really looked at her before. You can tell, absolutely, that we are related. Our noses and mouths are perfect matches. But our eyes contradict, brown to blue. My hair is a much deeper shade of red than her orange, wispy tufts. But the way she's holding herself- stiff, and nervous, is in the same manner I react around her. Maybe we were always distant. She has her favorites in all of us. Bill is the oldest, so he _must_ be responsible. Charlie is the rebel so he _must_ be humored. Percy is a (prat) prefect so he _must_ be cherished. Ron is the last boy, and Harry's friend, so he must be _fussed_ over. Ginny is the only girl, so she _must_ be protected.

Fred and I…we were the twins. We _were_ to be watched over.

But now it was just George. Not the oldest, not the youngest, not the rebel, not the prefect. And, although some would joke, I am certainly not the girl. What could that leave me as? The clown? The basket case? The black sheep? The outcast?

Was I going to be the Uncle that no one talked about at family functions? I wasn't going to allow that. Not at all.

Maybe I don't qualify for a label.

"Mum," I grab her attention away from the window. "Whatever happened that night…"

"I'm sorry." she blurts, face reddening. "I don't know what I did- well, what I said…"

She scrambles, fearing I'll yell and we'll row again. Fears it.

"No…really. Maybe breaking down was something I had to just do. Your presence or not,"

"But you were right, Georgie," I watch her fumble in her pockets, searching desperately for a tissue to wipe her dampening eyes. "You were,"

"I don't need to hear you confirm that." I say coolly. "Let's forget it, Mother,"

She sniffles, tissue forgotten. "Really?"

"Just let it be," I shrug. It's true. Her talking about it, bringing what I said back up and around the bend…I didn't need it all back. She could take the memory to her grave.

Her mouth opens, as to continue, when the Healer returns with a tray. "Oh, I'm sorry Mrs. Weasley. I need to give this to him though,"

Mum fumbles, again, wiping her eyes furiously. "Of course, Healer Fenwick,"

She makes tiny steps over to my beside, kissing my forehead. "I'll see you later, Georgie," And then she leaves while taking long, amble strides. All that is left is the overpoweringly floral scent of her cheap perfume.

Fenwick sets a bowl of soup on my small table, along with some bread and juice. "Make sure to eat all that,"

Her voice is still strong, but I can tell she hadn't enjoyed my Mother's hovering presence.

"So, Fenwick, right?" I grin, dousing the bread deep into the thick soup.

Her lips curl a little and repress a smile. "Quite true,"

"What even happened to me?"

Her shoulders straightened, going from care and comfort mode to medical journal.

"You overdosed on an unhealthy amount of alcohol while simultaneously having a seizure," she explains in an unfathomable voice. "All quite treatable, being almost mundane occurrences among wizards rather than mortals-, but your body just kept sleeping away,"

I had been scarfing down my dinner through her little speech. Swallowing dryly, I drank a bit of juice. "So that makes me a freak? Right?"

Her lips twitched again. "It was a little unusual,"

"I suppose my Mother gave you all hell for days," I say pityingly. I'd hate to have been a part of that mess.

"Your entire family took up the waiting area at one point, we had to send a few disgruntled patrons home so they could take turns,"

"Classic," I snort, imagining them all bickering on who got to gawk at my comatose body.

"It was quite the sight," Fenwick nodded, looking pleased I was eating everything, at least.

It didn't even take me fifteen minutes and the tray was completely empty of foodstuffs. I'm half tempted to growl for seconds but I suppose that would be pushing it a bit. Fenwick took away my dishes and came back to check my vitals again before explaining that for the late afternoon and overnight, Healer Quincey would be my care giver. I wasn't allowed to even get out of bed until tomorrow. That thought alone was depressing enough, I felt so trapped. Like I was in a cage at the zoo.

I wasn't cured.

I could still feel a layer of disease on my flesh. One that I knew would fade more with time, but would always exist. Just like the small hole in me that belonged to Fred. But that would never fade. It was something to live with, like my missing ear. You just had to move on. I guess I can see that, from a distance. I always knew I was hiding inside myself. Bound to happen.

It was getting dark. The room looked less appealing without the sunlight warming its features. There wasn't even a book or a newspaper around for me to mull over, and I actually contemplated just sleeping the hours away until there was yet another tiny knock against my hospital room door.

It must be Healer Quincey, here to prod and poke me.

"Come in," I answer, my voice a little unsteady after two hours of silence.

But it was Oliver who came in. I suppose I can't say this surprised me, it was his way. He always came alone, at night, when it was okay. None of my nutty family wandering around to ask him questions. He was not empty handed. Another bundle of the unique flowers were clutched in his fist. Oliver didn't seemed shocked that I was awake, just more nervous than he probably had been than when I was unconscious.

"Hey,"

He stands by the portrait, as my Mother had earlier. But he chooses to look at me, eyes darting from my lime green gown to my plastic label.

I was a nutcase. He could see that for certain now. I had been subconsciously killing myself for years.

"Hey," I copy him and stare from his flowers to bruise that darkened his right eye. "What's with the shiner?"

"Oh," he says, embarrassed, like he had forgotten it was even there. "We had a match against Portree this afternoon,"

"Did you win?"

"Nah, lost by ten. Took a Bulger right smack in the face. It was way worse earlier," Oliver grins a little, almost pleased with his injuries.

I return a smile, even though it doesn't really mean anything.

"I had my Dad get a few more of these," Oliver explains and arranges them around the old ones. "He keeps wondering why I need them so much,"

He doesn't follow with, 'I told him my insane lover keeps screwing up,'- but I know that is why I require so many damned flowers. I could do without them if he would just want me again. Like he had at the wedding.

Perhaps before, when I had placed a veil over myself from the world, I never realized that pushing Oliver away was the worst thing to do. He had taken it as not wanting him, which I always have required. Again, I wasn't over it.

Never would be. But I wasn't stupid enough to try to die twice.

"Oliver, sit down," I tell him and point towards the end of my tiny hospital bed.

He doesn't hesitate, and plops down exactly where I had offered. Sitting in the same manner as he had the last time I'd seen him, elbows resting on the tops of his knees.

"I know you must think I'm insane,"

He glances, panicked, "No! I'd never-"

"You'd be right. The way I've been, I'm sorry for some things and not for others. I can't exactly explain myself. But some of the stuff I've said to you,"

"You've already said you were sorry…I don't hold anything against you, George,"

I smile, but again it's not one of happiness. "You obviously do,"

"It's just…I don't know. You blame me for leaving, you caused scenes when I try to explain myself…and then at Ginny's wedding," he grins, running his hand through his short, dark brown hair. "I'm more than confused,"

"Well, then we've got something else in common,"

He chuckles, soft and low. "I suppose,"

The window shows nothing but darkness outside my window. A few candles are above the table, but besides them shadows swallow the walls and floor. You can hardly imagine a hospital room, so sterile and unfamiliar, as being romantic. Well add some mood lighting, flowers, and an Oliver, and it becomes remotely possible. It was human, to feel so aroused for something- or rather, someone.

And it washed over me like a wave in the sea.

"George…I never did forget you, you know. After I left school. I just felt that you should have time apart from me. I never experienced the world before and I admit I liked being so free," Oliver explains to his hands rather than look up at me. But I watch him, careful as ever, hoping not to see signs that this was a goodbye speech. "But when I came to see you…I knew I couldn't just leave you anymore. You are part of me now, no matter how much time passes."

"Or how insane I am?"

My smile is real this time. I can feel it touch my eyes.

"I suppose," Oliver looks behind him at the door, as though suspecting someone to be standing there. Then he moves up on my small bed, until he is right beside me. He leans down, our faces close again. I can see every eyelash, magnified. His lips are enough to draw me in, even after his hands gently caress my hips through the scratchy sheets. Being wrapped up in Oliver is so much better than being wrapped up in alcohol. Perhaps I chose the wrong addiction.

He breaks this kiss. "Every part of me needs you,"

My arms are around him now, barely meeting at the small of his back.

I laugh a little. "Even enough to lemme kiss you before a match?"

Oliver's face changes, but there isn't enough time to question it because Healer Quincey enters.

"Oh, you're still awake. Good, I need to give you this potion." Turns out this was the male Healer whose voice I had heard among Fenwick's earlier.

"You do know visiting hours are over, son?" he asks Oliver. I had never seen him up and off me so fast.

"Yeah- I was just leaving in a minute," he's flustered, not looking at the stout, grey-haired man.

Quincey gives me a concoction that tastes like bitter licorice and then leaves Oliver and I quite alone.

"He startled you," It wasn't a question.

Oliver shook his head. "He didn't scare you…I had almost forgotten where we are. You have that effect on me," he adds, smiling suggestively from the window sill.

Any suspicions I had melted. I needed out of here. Wonder if Oliver would help me escape? Nah, probably not. "Today is that day, you know,"

He falls a little from the elation of our kiss. "I know. It's why I had to come. You know I do miss him…"

"I always do,"

"I can't even imagine how that feels…"

We pass through a short silence, like a miniature memorial for Fred. Then Oliver comes over to my bedside again, kissing my forehead. "That strict Healer of yours said you'll be free tomorrow,"

"It's true,"

"Well then you have to come by my flat soon," he his lips peck mine, wanting to push, wanting more of this strange sort of release that we only ever had with one another. "You can make this work, I know it. You just have to,"

I smile, that funny potion now working in it's lethargic manner. My eyelids droop and I feel tingly. "You know, Fred always said that there was only one thing that anyone ever had to do while on earth,"

Oliver must notice my quick descent into dream world, because he was almost humoring me. "And what's that?"

"Die," I answer, and fall asleep still holding his face close to mine.


	11. About Birthdays And Truths You Will Hate

Title: Sanity

Pairings & Warnings: Mainly George/Oliver but contains Fred/Angelina, plus all of the Canon pairings exist. Multi-chaptered. Post-Hallows. Slash and Het. Angst. Language. A lot of drinking. All of those fun things.

Notes: Fred married Angelina Johnson before his death. They had a daughter two days prior to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Summary: It isn't the same, when half of you dies. Not that George is sporting how he's feeling, except to his outlets. When he's asked what he is waiting for, he can't even answer anymore. Could you?

An Important Message: Okay, I had to up the rating of my story here. There is a bit of lemon in this chapter, and I've decided to be nice and drop a warning that besides this one, there will be another before the story is through. If this bothers you (in a bad way, that is), then calmly see yourself out.

* * *

"Just one little day off isn't going to kill you,"

Oliver is pleading with me. His hands are placed flat out against the counter, palms down. The weather outside is nothing but pure humidity and I just know that he's have left prints behind on my spotless counter. It may sound strange that I'd give a damn what it looked like, but lately I've been tidy and I'm growing rather fond of it.

I feel my eyes swell up in their sockets; all due to the stress of the question. I hadn't had a day off since I'd…well, gone off the handle. I lost so much business that these past three months have been hell on earth. Several new products, seventy five shipments out and in, not to mention I've been allowing Owl orders…even today, a simple, quiet, Thursday- has become a constant river of customers, most with mere pocket change.

Angelina, who is beside me ringing up twelve sets of fireworks, chuckles under her breath.

"Actually, that is a possibility,"

I glare at her and finish tagging items I've been meaning to place in the discount bin. Oliver weaves around the kids grabbing things off the counter in front of him, eyes fully intent on goading me into stopping by Harry and Ginny's new place. It wasn't much, just a cottage in Godric's Hollow. I haven't seen it yet. But it was also Harry's birthday and according to Oliver I wasn't being a good brother-in-law with all my "working nonsense."

"Don't you have a match, or something? Anything at all that could save me the trouble of having everyone whisper questions to me about my mental stability?" I whine, knowing that resistance is futile when it comes to Oliver. I foresee that being a problem, but who wants to foreshadow their own life?

He picks up his hand to wave away my questions like gnats. There it is, the print on the counter. As bold as brass.

"No, you know we didn't cut it for playoffs," he says as though him being a part of a team that was _one_ seat away was frivolous, and unimportant to the present moment.

I lean forward, close enough that our noses almost touch. I can see him falter a bit, dying to move in to kiss me but also to scurry away from me.

"Why are you so intent on this?"

"Because you need a break," Oliver mumbles. Not at all like he had meant it to come out, I believe. The space that had evaporated between us made him entirely too nervous in public. I sigh, and lean back away from him. It was difficult having to keep him at arm's length. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's impossible and most of this time has been a complete illusion.

It was set to be a tension filled day anyway, I don't know why I bother thinking it could just change into a dull pace. The first night back from the hospital had been extremely uncomfortable, much like crawling into someone else's skin. I came to find my room reeking of stale alcohol and everything coated in dust. Oliver had been with me of course. It was embarrassing for him to really see it.

"_I told you a million times I don't care,"_

_Oliver looks around the office. Papers, books, and graphic novels are stacked pell-mell all over every available surface. Mugs and glasses top these towers. The mirror on the back of the door is shattered from one of my rages. The long drapes are drawn close and sewn shut. That overbearing, pungent odor that seems to hide in every crevice…every corner of every wall. It's coated to the dips in the ceiling, and if you peeled back the paint you would even see it there. Like a toxic perfume it has dampened everything with a sallow, dead scent that one would compare with a decomposing corpse. My flesh actually ripples just standing on the grime coated floor._

_He sighs, I can feel his warm breath on the back of my neck. His arm reaches out, wand extended. Oliver flicks it and things begin to correct themselves. My books eject and then rewind- bursting past us in a hurry to their shelves. Papers either fly into the trash bin or store in my desk drawers. The curtains tear open- the new seams I had placed bursting, and afternoon sunlight drips steadily into the bedroom. Clothes stuff the hamper and coats shoot to the closet. All the dishes and garbage are gone once I turn to face him again. He is standing there so calmly…I hate believing that things will be okay. Somehow they ought to be. Just have to be. When everything else had gone so wrong._

_I could claim that I hated him. But that is such a lie. I hated myself. A part of me still isn't full. It gnaws at me a little and I have to sit down on the bed._

"_You do trust me don't you?" Oliver asks, tipping my chin back so I am forced to look directly at him._

"_I want to. But will I have to be your little secret?" _

_It comes out poorly. He even drops his hand away, looking hurt._

"_I suppose I deserve that,"_

"_I saw you flinch when that Healer walked in on us. You ripped yourself from me,"_

_Oliver seems to be reliving that moment and shudders at the memory. "It's hard. I've never let anyone know," the last bit comes out in a little boy voice, as though he fears being scolded._

"_I know. But I won't be a lie,"_

"_I don't want you to be!"_

_That feeling of being chewed on from the inside only increases._

"_I hope you can prove that,"_

Oliver is still gawking at me, wanting me to just agree. Maybe I can look past all this…not bury it. Just keep going.

One day at a time, Georgie.

"Fine, fine. I'll close at one. But only because Ginny is stopping by for the last of her boxes, and she'll never get through this mess,"

"She's lucky to have escaped," Angelina murmurs while putting away receipts. Her golden engagement ring catches me off guard more than Ginny's ever had. I've asked her every day since Lee proposed if she thought she was doing the right thing. But then stars (I swear), would gleam in her dark eyes as though I just suggested we live on top of a bloody rainbow. Then I feel queasy and hesitant to even question her anymore.

"Shush. We're closing in twenty," I glance at my watch and back to Oliver. "Will you make it till then?"

"You are so funny," Oliver says sarcastically, even adding in a tiny eye roll.

"It's all apart of my insane, idyllic charm,"

The next twenty minutes fly by all too quickly. Angelina and I help with the last of Ginny's things and Oliver returned conveniently after all the work was finished. He had even went out and bought some house warming gifts. It was kind and very Oliver, but today he seems so distracted. On the way up the cottage steps, he already has drifted away several worlds from the rest of us. But for once, he does not object to having my hand laced with his own.

My sister's cottage is a wide open space, the left wall being completely made of glass. It isn't at all like I had imagined.

"Oliver's the better half of you," Ginny goads, taking the wine he had purchased earlier. "Don't let him go or I'll be inclined to think less of you,"

"Gee, thanks sis," I mumble, but the corners of Oliver's mouth are twitching.

"You both didn't have to stop by," Harry enters the hall. His voice is always calm and casual, face nearly expressionless and unfathomable. "It's just a new house,"

"Be quiet, if you keep insisting that on people, we'll never have company," Ginny says in seemingly mean way, but she grins a teasing smile.

His lips barely return it. I wonder how they can connect with such little emotion from Harry? Perhaps I just do not understand his burdens. I confess they are probably nothing like mine.

"So what's new in the family?" I ask this of Ginny, who is carefully arranging wine goblets in a cabinet.

"Same old, same old," she says, taking the last cup out of her husband's hand. "Fleur's pregnant again, Mum's insane but we're pretending she's just eccentric, and Dad's gone and blown up his own shed. Again,"

Oliver does another one of his snorting, short laughs that he randomly uses when he doesn't want to be heard. I roll my eyes at him and he jabs his pointer finger roughly into my ribs. When I look up to see his face, and perhaps glare at him, his green, gallant orbs are shiny and a tad suspicious. He seemed to be happy to have accompanied me, but for no apparent reason. I don't mind really. I was away from that awful bedroom that seemed to make the layer of shame on my skin burst out. I wasn't working. And because we were alone with family, I was allowed to seem like Oliver's…lover? Boyfriend? I hate that word but I suppose today it felt so true.

"Did Bill help him fix it this time?" Harry asks, genuinely concerned.

"Nah, he was alone. Mum did her bit all over the yard," Ginny says loftily, closing her kitchen cupboard. "Well, we could give you the tour,"

At that moment, several loud knocks issue through the thick wood of the front door. Harry exits to the hall, and several voices join his within mere seconds.

"Oh, dear. Ron and their Auror friends." Ginny grimaces. On her way out, she tells us to do whatever we wish but to stick around.

Oliver pretends to admire the kitchen ceiling for a second before he looks happily down at me. "Let's go look around,"

"We aren't going to stalk through the house," I must look panicked because he chuckles. This was a different laugh from his secretive one. Although this one was barely above a whisper, it was also quiet and throaty-, so he only meant for me to hear.

"Not stalk. Just rifle through a bit. Ginny wouldn't mind,"

"She said stick around," I say firmly, but Oliver is walking towards a staircase I hadn't noticed upon entering the tiny kitchen. It's a wrought iron, spiral set that you often see in kitschy little magazines on designer apartments. "I assume that means 'stay in the kitchen,' I add, because Oliver's left foot is on the first step.

"Quit being a wet blanket. This house is neat as anything and you know," he's drifting away, hardly making a sound as he ascends the staircase.

"I can just explore without you," Oliver adds in another laugh, just as quiet and as suggestive as it was to me a moment ago.

I wait to see if he's actually serious, and I can hear him continue up the steps. I reluctantly follow, because as I have always felt, it is impossible to just refuse Oliver. He's still there, but at the top of the landing. The stairwell is narrow, the walls bare save for a landscape painting in a golden frame. He's watching me in curiosity, instead of impatience. The gleam his eyes have held all day doesn't fade once I reach the stair that is just below him.

"Oliver," I say stiffly. His chest just touches mine he breathes. "What exactly was your plan for today?"

I somehow know what it may be. I just can't confirm the action in my head, or why it would be here.

"It's been a long time." he says in a vague sort of voice.

It confirms what I had thought, but I just can't say anything.

Oliver leaves the landing through a narrow archway. This hall is long with just enough room to walk through. The number of doors is surprising, again, for such a tiny cottage. He tries one and finds a linen closet. Next is a bathroom. The master bedroom, all perfected in dark gold. His fourth turn of a knob leads to just an empty room. There are a few boxes piled in one corner. The windows have generic curtains draped haphazardly over the glass. Obviously they hadn't yet decided on what this room was to be. Oliver enters this one, leaving the door open for me to follow. But something, something stupid, makes me hold back at the frame.

He turns to face me, but doesn't look hurt or even surprised that I am halting.

"Come here," he says simply. It's a task that sounds so easy but for me it just isn't. I know, or can at least estimate at what he wants. He doesn't always want it from me. Even when we were sane, normal, and younger he hadn't begged me to sneak away into his dormitory after hours. Only occasionally when he felt that I desired it enough. He just always knew things like that. After being completely wasted for so long, and still now so disfigured, I haven't allowed any feelings like that to return. They came. And they would go. But now Oliver wanted something. And it was going to be hard as hell to allow it.

"Now…here?"

"You hate your bedroom at the shop. This is a new place. No memories," he looks around happily the unfurnished space.

I glance down nervously at my own feet, treading the dark wooden floor. "What if someone comes in?"

"They won't,"

So simple. So easy. But I feel rooted to the doorframe.

When I don't come, Oliver approaches the frame. "Nothing you can't handle…and we'll stop if you want,"

Everything I had tried to convince myself wasn't true while on the staircase just explodes within my thought range. I hate being so anxious and inexperienced, like I was merely a silly child. Depression- if we have to name it so, ripped so much from me. Years ago I would have walked right through that door without Oliver leading me. I would have pressed up against him, grinding his hips roughly into mine.

I still think of that. I want that. Doesn't mean I can have it.

Oliver stops in the center of the room. The door is shut now and all I can hear is my own ragged breathing. Having him behind me where I can't watch his movements just heightens my sense of hearing. I jump slightly, his lips meeting softly to the crook of my neck. My nails are digging too hard into my palms. This nervousness must go. But I can't even move. His lips press a little rougher against my cheek. His stubble is scratchy when it touches my nearly hairless face, but that is just too familiar. I've never kissed another man besides Oliver. That seems so strange now, because I'm twenty one years old. It would have come up I suppose, if I hadn't become a pariah.

"Oliver…" It's hard for me to speak. His hair, which smells strangely of different spices, caresses my face now as he kisses the exposed part of my collarbone.

He mumbles.

"Have you been with other…other people since you've left school?"

At this, the gentle kissing ceases. He sighs against my skin, warm breath making everything about me shiver.

"I was. Nothing long term. And all," he stops to kiss my cheek. "Very meaningless,"

"How many?"

Oliver laughs. Again, a new one. This one is slightly annoyed and I don't like it one bit.

"You just won't drop that?"

I stare at him and say nothing. It's the best option.

"Three,"

"Blokes?"

"No. Two. One was a woman,"

I can't help it, but that causes a flinch in me. "Why?"

"I don't know." Oliver answers, gleaming eyes still intent on what he needed from me. "I told you my life was warped after I left school…and you. Everything was upside down,"

I make some sort of odd noise that comes out as a "Hmph". He is still very close to me, hands hovering above my hips. He doesn't want to touch me without some sort of agreement.

"Did you like her?"

"No. Just wanted her,"

"Like you want me now…" I trail off, feeling like I wanted to go home, alone, and yet needing to be here. This was like fucking therapy. What if I never wanted anything like this again?

"No!" he exclaims, furiously rubbing his forehead in irritation. "You are different. You know that,"

"What I don't know is how I can do this again. I feel like a fool standing here like a inexperienced boy," I blurt out before I can stop my mouth. "You won't enjoy whatever you take,"

He glances at me and I look away, blushing. He decides it is the time to grasp my waist now, and a small sensation of burning flames erupts in my abdomen. Again, so familiar just like Oliver's facial hair and the smell of his shampoo. Something so old. But like a wet and broken puzzle piece, you can't fit me back in so easily. Maybe even never.

Oliver breaks into my self-loathing by sliding his teeth along my lower lip. I'm ever submissive, so I open to his tongue without even a second thought. There are so many walls surrounding who I want to be and who I used to be, that I pray that something will soon break them to pieces. Oliver latches onto me, pulls me so close that our chests press together. Oliver breaks away from my lips, which I'm sure are now a tad swollen. He places his hand over where my heart lies. It only beats harder with him there.

"That one night…this never phased you. I picked you up…threw you onto a picnic table," he laughs, and this one is better. "Was that even really you that I snogged in front of your mother?"

"A lesser version," That had been some other me. One that had more courage though.

"Well I want the whole one, can I have that?" he asks, and lifts the edges of my shirt up so he can touch my bare skin.

"I don't know if he is still even around,"

That was true. And it hurts to think about it.

"Don't worry. I'll find him," Oliver says and sighs a little. The corners of his lips try to hide their urge to move into a smile as he drags his thumb back and forth across my nipple while simultaneously scaling the waistband of my trousers with his other hand.

I don't doubt that, I think. But I can't even talk anymore. I can't risk another sound because I know this moment will be shattered if someone comes across us. Oliver leans and begins to kiss me again, but with so much more fervor than before. I allow my tongue to dance along with his in a chaotic sort of rhythm that never really did make sense. He doesn't wait long before the hand that had been teasing me grasps my wrist. Oliver breaks the kiss and watches me intently before he pulls me into him so that my arms entwine around his back.

Everything nervous in me fades a little. I push out any creaks in the wooden floor I may hear. The only thing I can push my brain towards is getting Oliver to want me more.

Glancing curiously at him, I slip my hands around to his front. I grasp his belt and begin to undo the buckle. Oliver had been making marks all down my bruising neck but this tapers off and he watches me undress him. It becomes so much harder with him staring. I can feel a lump form uncomfortably in my throat and my hands shake a little. I can't believe I've become so embarrassing. But Oliver just smiles at my actions, not aiding, not halting, with his arms hanging limply at his sides.

To make it easier on my unsteady hands, I slide his trousers and boxers down together. My eyes stay focused on Oliver's but now I can practically feel the lust and need from them burn me. He's half-hard and taking him into my hand is just as familiar as anything else I've felt today. I can't watch my own actions, but I can feel their effects. Oliver's breath hitches. Soon enough, his eyes flutter closed. His neck bent back, soft, guttural noises spilling out of his parted lips. The sight is what drives me, I suppose. The need to not resist him just keeps mounting.

I drop to my knees as quietly as it's even possible to on a oak wood floor. I can hear something that sounds like my name come from Oliver's mouth as I slide him into mine. His hands find their spots among my long shag of red hair, pulling slightly. Urging me forward. I caress his thighs. Grab his waist. As long as my hands and lips are moving in their heated dance then no one will ever find us again. Teasing Oliver is fun enough. Letting my nails grind down between his legs. Biting at the base of his dick makes him just push my head further along his now seeping erection. The bitter taste of pre-cum barely gets its way down my itchy throat when I hear a noise on the stairs.

Pulling Oliver completely out of my mouth, I spin around towards the door.

But nobody is there.

"G-George…" Oliver whispers, sensual and needy all threaded into my name. I say nothing and push the entire length down my gullet.

He hisses, head shooting upwards. I do this same motion again, just because I like the sound Oliver makes. My own erection stiffens but I don't dare think I could ask him to tend to it for me later. This was enough to unsettle me for the rest of the day, thank you.

I hear the noise, but this time it talks.

"Oliver? George? Where have you two gotten to?"

It's Ginny, sounding wholesomely playful. Like we were three kids playing hide-and-go-seek. Unfortunately now it's hide-and-go-see-your-brother-suck-a-dick and I don't think Ginny will appreciate the change.

I look up at Oliver but he nods at me to continue. "Almost there," he says in that whisper I can't seem to shake.

One more time at the back of my throat, and he's filled me. I pull back to swallow quickly. He's zipping his trousers and I just go to wipe my lips when Ginny's hand turns the metal knob.

"Hey Gin," Oliver greets her with a nonchalant smile. "The view from this room is amazing,"

She doesn't even notice anything. But Merlin, I do. The smell of sex in this room practically inches off the wallpaper.

"Isn't it? I don't know what Harry has planned for this one, maybe a guestroom," Ginny doesn't even look at me as she joins Oliver at the window. I don't understand. How can she not see the stain of Oliver on my lips, or the anxious look on my face?

Is he really that fantastic of a fake and a liar?

We follow her downstairs for a little conversation (I skip the wine), and then we return to the shop. I don't know why but anger bubbles up inside of me. Of course I didn't want to be caught. And it wasn't forced. But it felt that way and somehow I wished Ginny had came up five minutes earlier, and never said our names. I wanted things to be clearer and now that I was home I realized that Oliver could never be with me in a way that I desperately need.

He wouldn't ever hold my hand or kiss me in public. If he sent me something, it was with his own private owl and no address. He moves away from anything outside of a locked door and chain.

I didn't want a lock and chain.

The shop is empty, and Oliver kisses me passionately beside a display of Muggle gags. When I don't return the enthusiasm, he seems worried.

"What's wrong?"

I stare into his eyes. Had he told me that he loves me lately? I couldn't really answer. I couldn't remember. I whispered it to him every morning and I'm sure he usually is awake most of the time. But he won't do that for me.

"Do you love me?"

It's so cliché and random, that I don't blame him for blinking at me, and feeling awkward.

"Of course I do,"

"You never say it,"

"I have to say it? You should know it." he pecks my forehead, but I keep on going.

"I say it. Everyone says it. It doesn't have to be everyday. I don't need it everyday,"

"Well, I do love you George,"

I pull out of his embrace, hoping that I'm not about to wreck what I've been after. What I lost myself looking for.

"Then why can't I come to your matches? Or meet your family, friends? You don't take me anywhere and when we aren't alone, you act like we are friends or don't even know each other at all-,"

"-that's not true, I never did that," he stumbles, looking ashamed. Looking embarrassed. But not looking at me.

My temper rises. It was an itch I had since he left school. He hadn't noticed me there, either. I was just a teammate.

"You did do that. And you do it everyday,"

"I'm sorry, I just can't…I can't be a queer, okay?" Oliver says, mumbled like a confession he didn't quite want me to hear.

It throws me off. "Huh?"

He's pacing, back and forth down the dark aisle.

"I'm all over the papers. Fishbowled. I can't be a pouf because it would jeopardize everything I've worked for!"

Realization hits a little hard. I suppose I knew that. I had asked to hear it. But now that it was there, I felt pain. Not the kind I had been used to being all pissed in my bedroom. This was insane. I didn't want to cry.

I don't do that. Or, at least, I can pretend I don't.

"So all I would ever be is your dirty little secret?"

He does something that is even worse. Oliver stays completely silent. He should have just clocked me one in the face. It would have felt so much better.

I'm half-running towards the staircase that leads to my flat. I scream something about never coming back here to him before I can get the door shut. I'm sprinting, falling down everywhere up the narrow steps. I feel my back collide with the wall and I slide down to the landing. It's much worse than having your insides explode. More painful than feeling like someone is torching their way out of your skull.

I love Oliver Wood. But now I am starting to see that maybe he just wasn't meant for me.


	12. Maybe You Can Imagine

Title: Sanity

Rating: Anywhere from PG-13 to R.

Pairings & Warnings: Mainly George/Oliver but contains Fred/Angelina, plus all of the Canon pairings exist. Multi-chaptered. Post-Hallows. Slash and Het. Angst. Language. A lot of drinking. All of those fun things.

Notes: Fred married Angelina Johnson before his death. They had a daughter two days prior to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Summary: It isn't the same, when half of you dies. Not that George is sporting how he's feeling, except to his outlets. When he's asked what he is waiting for, he can't even answer anymore. Could you?

* * *

It's amazing how something that seems so wonderful can end up turning into something terrible. Also, how something so broken can end up feeling so whole again at times, and then falling apart. Myself happens to be a beautiful example of both of those things. Summer came by so quickly, you really do have to stop and marvel at how time flies. Victoire is moving fast out of her infancy and is almost a toddler, much to the chagrin of my oldest brother. He boasts about his daughter, but we all know he is hoping that Fleur's swollen front may contain a son. Percy and Audrey are the most inexperienced (funniest) parents and neither dare to ask Mum for any help. She'd snatch Molly away in a heartbeat.

I'm counting up the day's earnings. Cornelia is sitting beside the register, wide blue eyes watching the buttons with curiosity. She's not a loud child, more observant than anything else. She is rather pleasant to be around, so when Angelina moves in with Lee at the end of November, I'll be quite alone once again. It's easy to find employees, but so hard to find people you like.

Cornelia pulls my sleeve, smiling happily as Angelina enters from the store room.

"All is finished, boss," she smirks, throwing her clipboard down in mirth. "You have too many snack boxes to even check off,"

"Yeah well, I'm sure the little monsters will be in soon enough to get them." I look down at Cornelia and pull a face. "Won't they? Hmm?"

"Don't use a baby voice, she'll start talking like your idiot self,"

Angelina skirts past me and scoops up the dark haired toddler. "Well, I'm off to hell for supper,"

"Bring back some, I'm famished," I plead. But I know it is no use.

She's glaring. "You know she flips her wig when I ask for George leftovers. Just grow a left one and come along,"

Cornelia squeals about something, as if she thought this was so funny.

"I can't do that. I like being sane now,"

I smile a little, not letting my eyes peek out at her from under my still-shaggy ginger bangs. I hear her huff, and watch as she shifts Cornelia to her other side.

"You either come, _boss_, or you can starve,"

With that she smirks once again and leaves the shop, leaving me behind with my stomach growling so loudly Mum can probably sense it from the house. It's always a toss going in there. You could have a jolly old time or you could want to shove down a fifth afterward. You can never depend on stability in this life.

But my gut usually wins these days and soon I'm scrambling for a sweater, and then later rapping on the front door. It was a little weird that none of us, save for my parents, even live here anymore. Ron and Hermione's wedding last week left them at a house near London, Ginny was long gone, and the rest of us kicked it awhile ago. Flown the nest. It actually causes a lump to mold in my throat until Charlie answers the door.

"I haven't seen you in forever, my favorite sister,"

He's more burly than ever. Sun darkened tan, thick arms and an even tougher expression. As I enter, he frogs my arm in what he probably thinks is a light love tap. It feels like someone has burned a hole in my bone.

"Love you too, my ape like brother,"

Charlie rolls his eyes but of course takes it as a compliment. "Apes are strong beasts,"

In the living room, Dad's laughing along with Percy and Ron, who looks more like an adult than I care to allow. Angelina is discussing something in a more whispery voice with Audrey while their daughters play with blocks and dolls. The more surprising guests turn out to be Andromeda Tonks and a two year old Teddy Lupin. He's watching the little girls play apprehensively, clutching the skirts of his grandmother's cloak.

"Go over, Ted, they won't hurt you, you silly boy," she encourages softly. Andromeda is always someone I think of. She lost everyone so quickly I can't even imagine what that does to a person. I suppose Teddy is the one blessing behind that. His eyes are shifting from turquoise to a steely gray while his hair filters to every color imaginable.

It isn't until Cornelia bravely goes over and hands him a tiny doll that he lets go of his grandmother and sits with them. Andromeda sighs, her face heavily lined. She appears so much older since I had seen her a year ago.

"George, hello dear," she greets me as though she hadn't seen me watching.

"How are things, Mrs. Tonks?"

"Oh, lovely. Teddy's been a handful of course…I don't see why he's so timid at parties and such,"

"His metamorphosing has certainly developed,"

"Yes, he's really noticing now that he can control his eye color," Andromeda gestures to the tiny boy whose shapely orbs were now deep gold. "He seems to prefer that the most,"

It was a little ironic. The same shade he had picked belonged to his father as well. Funny how those things happen, and I could tell Andromeda was thinking the exact same thing.

Mum calls us all in to eat after seven, the tiny kitchen cluttered with chairs stuck against the scrubbed table any which way. Roasted meats and potatoes fill up most of my plate until Audrey nervously asks if I'll try her vegetable medley salad.

"Your shop is really taking off, George," Percy points his fork at me, which has shiny green beans stabbed onto the end of it. "You must be thinking on opening another store."

"I actually haven't. But it was always a goal to have another venue in Hogsmeade,"

I didn't need to add that it had been Fred's idea. Everyone should just know.

"Well you should start searching!" Percy says enthusiastically, nearly choking on his beans. "Prices in real estate are so low for commercial enterprises,"

Baby Molly, who is in a high chair beside her high strung father, proceeds to dribble her cup of juice all over his lap.

"Gee Perce," I point my knife at him now, in the same pompous manner he had just used. "Even your kid knows when you're too excited,"

Percy turns a little red but gives me a death stare.

Dad asks me about business too, and before I can start counting down minutes, I realize that it is almost time to leave. It feels strange wanting to just stick around. Even to do dishes with Ginny and Charlie. Perhaps play with the kids for a little. But I know that is not an option. Teddy and Cornelia lay sleeping amongst the toys, no one had even seen them escape from their chairs. The weirdest thing of all is seeing bits of their deceased parents inside of them. Cornelia is thoughtful and friendly, whilst Teddy seems more cautious. Would he find friends at school one day like Harry's father and Sirius Black? Was it even possible that Cornelia would outdo Fred in our pranks and schemes? No one likes to admit that they are becoming parts of the past, but it happens.

That nagging feeling that has plagued me since I arrived stiffens me in my chair. You can only ignore bad thoughts for so long.

"Are you finished, George?"

Reality slams me home. Mum and I are the only ones left in the kitchen. Her withered hand is extended towards my direction, asking wordlessly for my dinner plate. Blinking, I hand it over and slam my knee too hard trying to get up from the chair.

"You OK, dear?" her eyes falter but she tries to stay focused.

"Yeah, I'm alright," I answer, rubbing my sore leg. "Haven't been around much, I know,"

"That's fine. I understand," she turns away from me and begins to wash everyone's dishes.

"If you need help, Mum I can stay,"

"Oh, no. That won't be necessary George." her body creases a little. "How is Oliver?"

I nearly blurt out "Oliver who?", but she knows he hasn't been around. As well he shouldn't be. You can't keep around someone so _famous_ for very long. Ugh, famous. What a bitter word in my vocabulary.

"Err," Is what comes out of my mouth instead. "Haven't seen him lately,"

"I see. Well, whatever makes you happy, Georgie." she peeks at me over her shoulder, and although her smile is small it is quite real. Very unexpected, but I suppose it is a prize all the same.

"Thanks, Mum," I tell her as I exit into the hall, and she just nods.

Funny things.

I hate using the Floo, so instead I Apparate directly outside the store. For late summer there is a slight chill in the air. I walk in and realize that everyone is really gone. Grown up. Moved on. Their lives slightly intertwined forever, but they don't always travel down the vines. As for myself, I'm the tiniest vine of all. The one with the thinnest connections that break and grow back too easily. I seem to love these heart wrenching metaphors, but it's all my brain can turn up as I light the shop's lamps.

That's when I can see his shadow flicker outside the entrance. His face stays invisible but his silhouette is just too familiar. It's just too convenient that Oliver Wood comes now to darken my doorway. Most of me is tempted to leave. Flee. Hide before he can ruin the blockade I am always building against what I know will never go away. I don't stare or pause. Instead, I put on a working façade. Stack the order forms. Tidy up the counter. Maybe he'll just turn out to be a figment of my imagination. If that's true, my imagination must _really_ hate me.

The cold air outside breaks a little and rain begins to fall. It pitters off the window and the thick glass of the shop front. Quietly, Oliver raps his fist against the door. My body responds before much thought and I glance up. He is still encased in shadow. My heart skips every other beat as I unlatch the door and let him inside. Vaguely, the image of a naive woman letting a fast-talking, fast-working con artist into her apartment brushes through my head. Oliver's a little damp and slightly strained looking. Well good. I wouldn't wish anything less on him.

Without even talking he leans forward. Much too fast for someone like me. His lips crash against mine and for one crazy second I kiss him back. Then once the blood actually reaches my brain again, I push him away by his shoulders.

Oliver wasn't expecting that and steps back a bit. I wipe my lips on my sweater sleeve for a disgust emphasis even though there is a ball of fiery knots in my lower abdomen. All that from one single kiss.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

I couldn't have just spoken when his words come tumbling out in a whirlwind.

"My father. His name is Bertrand. He's a florist, and my mother died because I neglected her. She was always sick and Dad couldn't manage it all," his face, his lips, everything on Oliver is flushed. "I have one aunt and uncle, and my wonderful cousin Veronica. But I don't have any other family. You should meet them sometime. They really would love you, you know,"

"Oliver…I," but he won't stop. He isn't even looking to see any of my reactions, but is staring everywhere else.

"My mother…her name was Eleanor and my parents were much too old to have me, but they had always wanted a child. She didn't like me playing sports…she wasn't even that happy when I signed onto Puddlemere…then came the illness,"

Oliver's breaths were shallow now, and he had grasped onto my forearms. I hadn't even felt it.

"They really would like you, and so would my friends…but fuck them all if I have to stay alone and lose," Oliver's eyes drop into mine and his nails graze the veins beneath the flesh on my wrists.

"I don't understand." That's pretty much the sum of my life. I don't understand my Mother. Or why Fred had to die. Why any one person dies. But I understand my sister, and Cornelia. I understand business and humor. And I can understand why Oliver is here, panting, looking at me like I should be slapping him. Because it's what I have wanted from him all along, and it's taken half a decade to obtain it.

"I will be damned if you don't understand that I've always loved you."

He leans in again, holding my face. Soft, feathery caresses on my cheekbone, his lips brush my nose…if I could take out my heart, physically, I probably would just so it would quit its traitorous beating.

"What about all that stuff you said? It's not like you can just stop feeling that way…"

Oliver doesn't move. "It's not important. I guess I've been realizing that being with you can't get me off the team. But I won't lie. It's going to change things for me,"

"Do you care?"

"Not really,"

I can't help but laugh. Laugh at how the one time I try to overcome my own feelings, they end up right back here and eat me alive. But I may let them anyway.

"Come with me, yeah?"

He walks over to the shop door and holds it open. Outside, the rain beats harder than ever off the cracked stone road. I walk towards him, staring up at the darkness above us.

"Well, where are we going?"

Oliver says not one word but holds on tightly to my wrist. When we pull out, we're standing on a slightly muddy street. Above us on a hill is a rickety looking house with several shutters that are falling off. Almost no light comes from within except for two gaslights burning a mellow orange on either sides of the front door. Oliver, still holding onto me, drags me up the muck and grass strewn path up to the lonely looking house.

The mild green paint is missing, cracked, off the exterior of the door. But Oliver knocks on this surface, seeming comfortable to do so. A tall, wrinkled old man answers. It's obvious to me now that we're at his fathers house. He gives me a suspicious glance, but his cracked lips grin widely at the sight of his son.

"Oli…I wasn't expecting you so late."

"Well, I realized that what I had to tell you is too important to wait until Sunday,"

Bertrand Wood moves from his door way and gestures us into the narrow hall. Inside, the place is just as old looking as the outside. Three separate arches lead into a sitting room with slip covered sofas, a kitchen with the smallest of tables, and a staircase that is painted the same onion green as the walls. Bertrand ushers us both into the sitting room and onto one of the paisley orange couches.

"I'll get some tea," he mumbles and goes back out of the slanted archway.

I jab Oliver in the side. "Why are we here?"

"You wanted to meet my family. There he is,"

"Not at eleven o' clock at night!" I hiss. But he looks more pleased and relaxed than I have seen in a long time. There's a glint in his eyes that can only mean that he's determined on something. Too focused to listen to me.

A few moments later, Bertrand renters with a tray of silver teacups and one swelling teapot. The clean but old scented room stays completely silent for a long while. In fact, I'm swirling around the leaves for something to do when Oliver clears his throat.

"Dad, this is George Weasley,"

Like the antisocial man that I am, I offer him a half smile.

"Well, it's about time you introduced us, Oli," Bertrand peers over his spectacles at his son.

"Sorry Dad," Oliver grins sheepishly.

"Weasley, eh? I knew your father when he started at the Ministry…it was right before I left my office to start my own business. I'm a florist, you know,"

"I've heard."

"Hmph," grunts Bertrand. "He's a good man, Arthur. I remember Oli mentioning you when he went off to fight at Hogwarts,"

My stomach twists a little inside. Oliver had left his father alone to come and fight with everyone. To find me. Too bad that had been the day half of me died.

"Did he?" Is all I can think of to say.

He grunts again, but Oliver interrupts him.

"Can we walk over to the greenhouses? I've always wanted George to see them."

Bertrand doesn't reply verbally. However, he raises out of the armchair and gestures for us to follow. A door I hadn't seen before leads us to a backyard that is as muddy as the roads but twice as grassy. Rabbits are scattered all over the slope, examining the land after the rain. Then I looked on further and my jaw fell a little. There isn't just one greenhouse. There are two gigantic ones with walls higher and ceilings deeper than many manor homes. Several smaller ones are scattered around those.

Bertrand shuffles across the damp yard, behind him Oliver, and then myself. He takes out his wand and mumbles words over the handle of the glass door. It opens without a sound. Inside, there are vines and deep purple flowers of every shape and size growing over much of the walls. Vases of different plants I have never seen before are in each corner. But it is the bulbs growing up from the ground that I notice more than anything in the greenhouse. Their soft, clear blue and gold petals crown shockingly pinkish centers. Those stupid flowers. They were always haunting me everywhere.

"I figured here would be a good place to show you," Bertrand looks as pleased about these flowers as Oliver is now.

"I've seen them before," I say, marveling how the bulbs seem to be breathing.

"Oli invented them a long time ago," he smiles at the memory. "He was just a young lad of eight, and insisting I take him down here with me to tend to the biting tulips."

"I tripped over one of them, and it took a nasty snap at my ankle," Oliver explains, each man telling parts of the story.

"So as I'm looking at it, Oli starts playing with a few seeds on that old table-,"

"I kept dropping them in the soil, and pricking my fingers with their sharp ends,-"

"And he suggested I mixed them with his Mother's favorite golden begonias. Well, I didn't know what would become of the little seeds, all broken and old. But they've been the most marvelous creation of all."

"They are beautiful," I say after a moment or so. He had never told me why he insisted I have them all the time. But now it was sort of special. They really are Oliver flowers.

Bertrand takes us around for a little while longer, telling story after story about Oliver and his wife. It's well after midnight before the three of us return to the back entrance of the main house.

"Well, I can't keep you both forever." Bertrand smiles, and I find myself returning one.

"I'm going to take some of those bulbs if you don't mind, Father," Oliver starts down the hill again without waiting for Bertrand to answer.

"Ah, too bad they aren't at full bloom yet. Oh well,"

His eyes turn to me. So somber, serious…and the same shade as Oliver's. "I knew who you were,"

I don't hide my look of surprise.

"Oliver's only mentioned a few people to me over the course of his life. I can't tell you who anyone else was…I only can recall your name. Over and over…in letters and in person."

I can feel my face heat up. Oliver always acted like I didn't exist. That I was merely another Weasley he was pals with.

Bertrand shuffles in place, hands wedged deep into the pockets of his navy colored trousers. "I realize that the path Oliver has chosen is strange and too different from the one I have imagined for him. I know all what he is, and you, too. No one has to tell me any different. I'm not a naive old man,"

Now I really feel ill at ease. I can't even look at him.

"But as long as he is happy now…and I'll let you know, these past twenty three years or so he never has been for longer than a minute."

"I want him to stay happy," I shrug, glancing up at the new, clear sky.

"So do I."

There was a natural understanding between Bertrand and I. He wanted his only son to be fulfilled, and it didn't matter how that was achieved. Not too many wizards would ever think that way but I suppose it is a tiny blessing in my life, a speck of white against a stain of blackness.

Oliver comes back with an entire bouquet of the flowers. We bid our goodbyes to Bertrand and head towards the road. Instead of being so dirty as I pictured before, it's rather peaceful, if wet, and bathed in the silvery glow of the quarter moon. Oliver fits his hand into mine and it feels at home there. As though his hand was carved and shaped just for that occasion.

"You did talk to Dad, didn't you?" he smiles a little, uneasy about how that went.

"I did. Maybe everything can work out some way. I guess I was expecting near perfection when I woke up and saw you over my hospital bed. I can't see that now…but this may work,"

Oliver kisses my forehead. "That's the spirit."

* * *

Ahhh, love. Well, as a note to anyone still around, there are only two chapters left and one epilogue. The next chapter will be another lemon, and a little more drama before the end. I may combine the last chapter and epilogue, so don't be surprised if that happens.


	13. There Can Be Two Kinds Of Climaxes

Title: Sanity

Rating: Mature

Pairings & Warnings: Mainly George/Oliver but contains Fred/Angelina, plus all of the Canon pairings exist. Multi-chaptered. Post-Hallows. Slash and Het. Angst. Language. A lot of drinking. All of those fun things.

Notes: Fred married Angelina Johnson before his death. They had a daughter two days prior to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Summary: It isn't the same, when half of you dies. Not that George is sporting how he's feeling, except to his outlets. When he's asked what he is waiting for, he can't even answer anymore. Could you?

**_LEMON._**

* * *

"Are you sure this is an okay outfit?" I ask Oliver for the umpteenth time in the past hour. He's laying down on my unmade bed, his face obscured by his hands.

"Yes, George, it's fine."

"You didn't even look!"

Oliver abruptly sits up, stares at my new dark emerald cloak, and then flops back down onto the mattress.

"Lovely. Can we leave sometime this century though? Lunch time only lasts so long,"

I glower at him but I'm pretty sure that I look good enough. If Oliver hadn't sprung up this family function at his Aunt Helen's manor in Wales three hours before it started, I would look even better. Straightening out my unruly hair one last time, I kick his leg which is draped over the end of the bed.

He sits up and adjusts his own clothes. "C'mon let's get out of here,"

Oliver is pulling me away, down the stairs and towards the back exit when I tug against him.

"What?" his eyebrows furrow together.

"Are you positive they will like me?"

"Yes, yes, yes," Oliver says quickly, ushering me along again. "My Dad will be there so you'll already know someone,"

I can't help having a nervous lump caught in my throat. Oliver leads the way out into the alley, which in the back of my mind looks unfamiliar. I don't even think I knew I could leave my own shop this way. It's milliseconds before we are standing right outside an iron fence. Two coppery statues of horses mount each column beside the gate, slightly green from time and oxygen. There are no chains on the lock, and it opens easily when Oliver presses his fingertips to the keyhole.

"You _are_ scared." Oliver comments, because it certainly wasn't questionable.

I keep trying to shove my nerves away. A short time ago, I would have asked for a drink. Now I just have to live with it. "Be quiet."

Oliver's lips do their smiling bit and I so desire to punch him.

The front door swings open before we can even walk up the front marble steps. A women dressed all in purple comes waddling down the garden path, her dark eyes lit in excitement.

"Oh Oliver, you better never do this again!" she shouts in a reprimanding way, while flinging her arms around him.

"Do what, Auntie Helen?" he chokes out. Helen is rather stout women but she has the look of someone who could probably kill and cook her own five course supper.

"Wait so long without visiting, of course!" her face positively tingling with glee. She rounds on me, and although her thrill fades a shade, she pulls me against her as well.

I watch Oliver snicker at me over the top of her tiny, aubergine bowler hat.

"You're George, I wager?" her brusque voice vibrating against my collarbone.

"Yes, Mrs. Wood."

"Well in that case, you better call me Helen," she smiles sweetly, patting my arm probably a bit too hard. Too like Oliver. I could see them now, aunt and nephew, duking it out over a game of anything-goes-Quidditch.

I merely smile and she begins ascending back up the marble steps. "You both come up here now, into the house. It's getting too cold for November,"

We follow her into the foyer and it's more modest than the outside and yard. The only things that make it rather unique are the exotic flowers and purple theme to every single fabric. The curtains were plum, the carpets were lilac, and even the candles in the light fixtures were a bright shade of grape.

"Auntie really loves purple," Oliver smirks again at only me, for Helen is ten steps ahead.

"Of course I do! Royal color it is," she titters and pushes back a white wooden door. A few sofas and chaise lounge chairs clutter the tiny sitting room. A grand piano and fireplace take up most of the floor area, and it is hard not to notice the gigantic family portrait hanging above several candle sticks. It was of Helen, dressed in a poofy dress made of chiffon lace, a tall man with a stern face, a beautiful dark haired girl I assume is Veronica, Oliver's father, an older male who I guess is the grandfather, a woman who looks too much like Oliver, and the prized Keeper himself. He must have been seventeen, with a coy smile and too much glint in his eyes.

"That's Uncle Hector and my Father's dad," Oliver points to the portraits I had been gawking at.

"Is he still…living?" I ask carefully, but the somber look in his eyes didn't really need asked.

"Died the year before my Mother did. That's her there, of course."

"You look a lot like your parents."

"So you do," his index finger pokes into my ribs to tease. "But I really miss both of them."

"Your Aunt seems nice."

"It's Hector that is so hard to please," I watch Oliver's face harden a bit. He's never called his older family members by their first names before.

"Why is that?"

"He's never been the same after my Grandfather died. He always felt that he loved my dad more than him."

"That's so silly," I scoff.

But Oliver's face obtains a different look. "We're not so sure,"

I stare blankly, but perhaps it is beyond my realm of understanding. My family is just too _into_ family.

Oliver sighs. "He left a ton of money to Hector and none to my Dad. But when he was ill, he stayed with my family and pushed his wedding band on us, saying that the two families could never be compared in humility and kindness and blah blah blah…" Oliver waves his hand away at the rest of his words.

"Your Uncle's miffed over that?"

"Believe it or not, that's exactly why. A dying man's fever preaching."

I open my mouth to say something else when Veronica enters the sitting room. She isn't as exquisitely dressed as her mother, but is elegant nevertheless. The two of them, as cousins, look nothing like the other. She embraces Oliver tightly, smiling as she does so.

"We thought you'd ditched us," Veronica punches his arm lightly. Such a friendly family.

"Never. Veronica, this is George."

It is hard to analyze the stare she uses on me. It is neither contentedness nor disgust. A look of observation washes over my body, as though I'm a subject in a scientific experiment. Her eyes are an even darker shade than Helen's, and her hair is pitch black. A green ribbon holds back the thick locks.

"Nice to meet you," her pale hand extends from a velvety sleeve.

I take it, finding the action too formal for words. Her flesh is as cold as it is pallid.

But Veronica doesn't seem to harbor any dislike for me. I don't think she harbors anything at all for nearly everyone. I notice this as we work though a large lunch, spread out over a gigantic oak wood table, garbed in lavender cloth. Her mother attempts to joke with her, and Hector even criticizes her table manners. But Veronica's face stays suspiciously blank.

Bertrand and Helen make most of the conversation, more joking than anything else. It was, I suppose you could call it something like comfortably awkward.

"So there _is_ a good chance of England signing you next season?" Oliver's father asks him.

"If I make Captain in a few days, there is a good possibility." Oliver tries to say this nonchalantly but I can see his smile itching to burst through.

Helen grins enough for him, though. "Oh, you've grown up so nice Oli. I'm glad to see you so happy."

"Are you Mum?" Veronica finally speaks. Her voice is shaking, her face even paler than it had been in the sitting room.

The entire table looks down at her. Bertrand seems confused, as does Helen. Hector adapts a silent stand-by. Only Oliver looks at his cousin in anger.

"Can you be really happy that Bertrand's only child can't continue our family line?"

"That isn't important, Veronica, I-," Helen starts, but the willowy girl jumps up from the table.

"Yes it is! Father even agreed with me but you insisted on inviting that…that _uncultured_, no _class_, shopkeeper _here_!" she points a bony finger at me.

And what do I do? Stop and watch her. Oliver's hand clenches roughly with my leg and I can tell that is the only thing keeping him from feuding with her.

"You are out of line!" Helen yells, standing up as well. "Both of you! I told you that if you cannot accept what is going to happen then to just stay out of it!"

"This is my house, woman! I will not be refused entry!" Hector hisses from his end of the table, tossing his violet and cream colored napkin onto his dessert plate.

Bertrand glances over at Oliver and nods towards the hallway. A warm hand engulfs mine and yanks me into a crouched position. Soon I'm being dragged outside and told to stand still. Before I can even process what had occurred, I am looking into the tiny grains of wood that make up the door to the back entrance of the shop.

"Oliver? What exactly,-"

But my speech is cut off completely by his mouth. His lips pull and grind mine, biting perhaps a little too roughly and drawing blood. Oliver breaks the kiss and then cleans up the tiny, scarlet droplets.

I find that I protest him pulling away and go to complain, but there he is yanking me into my own store.

"What the _fuck_ happened back there?"

"My cousin is an insufferable bitch."

He says this so simply, when two hours ago he had embraced the girl.

"But…but she's your cousin,"

"So?" Oliver marches up the steps to my flat, all while mumbling to himself.

"So what the hell just happened? She thinks I'm so low and have no class, does she?"

Truly, I don't find her offensive at all. Veronica seems insignificant enough in the life I've chosen with Oliver. However, when he turns around, I can see that this has affected him very much indeed.

"About my Grandfather…the money story I told you. It's a lot of lies."

I stare so blankly that my irises must seem white. "What?"

He sighs, stroking his thick, short hair. "I made it up to hide what had happened to my mother. I didn't want you to have the same experience."

Oliver walks though my hallway, and opens my bedroom door. The bed is still messy from where he had been sitting earlier. I follow him inside.

"My mother was just a poor Muggle-born my father fell in love with at Hogwarts. Grandfather loved her too, but Hector and my Grandmother despised her. When they got married, everyone kept comparing her to Helen, who came from a well-to-do Pureblood family. It drove both my mother and aunt crazy."

Oliver returns to my bed, still looking frustrated. "Up until the day she died, Hector never let her forget that she had given me 'an improper upbringing'. Loads of tosh of course,"

"And the wedding band?"

"Oh, yes. My uncle was very furious when he gave that to my family. But he never had any money. All of their riches come solely from Auntie."

I let out a low whistle, sitting down beside him.

"So why did you lie?"

"Like I said, I thought it would go very differently. Veronica and I have never really fought over anything before today. I wish she wasn't like her father,"

We lapse into silence, staring at the very obtuse wall ahead of us as if it held some sort of answer. And yet, I know that however many questions I pose, there are twenty million more that I will come to see. The weight of this knowledge is a little staggering, and what with the afternoon's events, collapsing back onto my bed feels better than it usually would.

Several minutes ticker by before Oliver lays down beside me. His palm slides down over my arm and our hands join together.

"I'm sorry it didn't go as you wanted."

"I'll live with it." Oliver says softly. Too softly. His voice drips something I rarely hear and hadn't even wanted to notice since July. Suddenly, he sits up, our hands still connected. I go up with him and he leans forward- so close, so close…I can see every last eyelash and pore before he tugs on my lips as he had done when we came home.

Home. Was this room home? With Oliver, it very well could be.

Lucid wetness coats my lower lip as his tongue jets across it. When I finally part my mouth, he finds the edge of my throat. Strong, callused hands slide over my thigh and through my hair. I thought that I would be so scared of this. So frightened of this very room, even. But now that I feel halfway complete, I want to crumble against someone I should have fell into years ago. Without asking or being maneuvered, I climb off the bed and sit back down onto Oliver's lap.

He seems slightly surprised at my eagerness, but I give him no moment to ask me anything. Our lips lock again and I nudge him backwards, so that he's laying down and I can rest on his wide hips. Those same rough hands shoot in all different directions, ghosting up my shirt and pushing the robe off my back and into a crumpled mess on the floor. And then…I realize that Oliver looks much better without his silly tie or shirt. He doesn't even move an inch as I tear these away from him. Instead, he merely watches me, marveled.

"You never sit on me,"

"I have so!" But I wrack my brains anyway in case he wants an example.

"Not unless I ask you too," he teases, feeling his way over my pathetic looking hipbones and backside. A small, tiny ball of fire begins to build below my naval.

"Be quiet," I whisper, bending so that our mouths can meet again.

Oliver actually obeys me, but starts undoing my belt while smiling into our kiss.

It's astounding how long we sit like that, even though tensions mound and I can feel him digging hard into my leg. With my trousers opened, the pad of his thumb slides too low and peeks at the base.

"Do you want this?"

Suddenly my world slows down too quickly. I can feel the race of adrenaline that arousal brings. The pain that will come if I say yes. Sex isn't the prettiest event as I well remember, because large objects stretching smaller ones takes stamina and time. I hadn't even considered sex with anyone else but Oliver, so my track record sort of ended at age eighteen. Did that even matter? I try to remember. Even though it had been the worst pain of my young life, I hadn't minded at all. I had wanted to push it further…have him hit harder because I knew it would all go away and I could see that look on his face. That look that I knew was completely unique and was only brought on by making love to me.

And it never matters how disgusting you think you'll look.

I scramble backwards off him and the bed. For about five seconds, Oliver looks scandalized, but that turns back into interest when I take off my trousers and boxers in one good pull. Hands guide me towards him, now that he is sitting back up on my messy bed that had once been such a numb prison. Oliver cannot understand how it feels to have his palms and fingertips dragged over one's stomach and waist, or he wouldn't torture in that manner. Or maybe he would, just as an afterthought as his hand grasps my erection. His tongue glides along it, mercilessly drawing me into is mouth. It's too much. How can one resist Oliver?

How did I ever do that? But wait. I was insane, after all.

Teeth graze over my thighs, with too much trepidation. Even insanity can't be my defense.

Oliver pulls away from my lower half, undoing his own belt and trousers. I yank them away from him, throwing them Merlin knows where in my bedroom. He pulls me in again, placing feathery, passionate and heat inspired kisses all over my stomach. It's paler than a fish's belly but I don't even think he sees that. Again I find myself in his lap, being thrown onto the plush mattress and landing on my back. His rough thighs wrap around me as we kiss once more, and I can feel the muscles twitch beneath his very flesh.

Fingertips tickle my lower lip until I get the hint and take two into my mouth, then three. Oliver's head lolls back for a moment. It's too hard to watch though, and I'll have to put myself down if I come before I get what we both want. He seems to notice this and takes back his fingers. I sort of forgot what was coming and violently hiss once one presses against the tight ring of muscles. It isn't even all the way in before he tries another, making a scissoring pattern. The pain is a dull throb and a sweat, warm and harsh, unleashes against my forehead and the back of my calves.

Oliver looks so frustrated, I feel that I have to take it. "Stop moving onto my hand. I have to use more than spit,"

He pulls out and when the fingers return, it is in their entire length. I still have to grunt in pain but now they are coated in something cool and wet. Oliver throws his wand to the floor and it becomes obvious to me what he has done.

With two, came the third, and after too many minutes spent on having me spread open, the fingers just vanish from me. I actually _whine_. Whine. Right there on the mattress. Oliver nearly snickers. I go to turn over, but he stops me.

"No, I want to see you."

Another new thing. Being sane has all these new, awkward experiences. Like getting bitched at by your boyfriend's only cousin and being laid while being watched.

His hips shadow mine. His lips consume mine.

Oliver's face is cheek to cheek with my own, and he whispers so quietly into my ear, "I really do love you,"

Then stars burst into my eyes as his pushes all the way through me and I know that I have been sliced in two. The pain is nothing like anything else on this planet, at first. The only object left in my room is the mattress and the only person ever in existence is Oliver. He doesn't move too much, just enough so that I can feel fire lick my insides. My nails tear into the sheets so hard I faintly hear ripping sounds.

"Move. Now." I order but wonder if it should be regretted. Gods, first times were firsts for a reason. Why am I forced to relive this just a few years later?

But the pain is sliding away.

My body isn't shaking.

Every time Oliver pushes forward, he goes further in. Inch by inches. My entire body seems to be swallowing him up.

Now is when I remember why I liked sex. Who can forget that?

My back arches as his speed increases, Oliver leaves tiny trails of bite marks down my torso. His face is beside mine again as his tongue teases my earlobe.

"You're just as tight as before," his voice is so sultry that even it is a turn on.

"Gods, don't talk to me now like that," I hiss back. Every part of me is covered in that sweat now, but so is Oliver.

"As you wish," he bites down on my earlobe while pumping my erection.

You have to hate and love it all at once.

I come before he does, watching half in wonder, half with glazed over eyes, as the white liquid drips off his toned abdomen. However, I want him to feel this too. I move towards him, pushing him even further in, until I feel something burst within me. Then warmth. It's too warm in here to be normal. Oliver collapses beside me, gasping a little.

"That …that was never like that."

"Shh, Oliver."

"Oh now _I'm_ being loud? You were screaming out my name!"

"Was not!" Although I can feel my ears turning red.

He chuckles, bringing the cleaner sheets around us in a miniature cocoon. "Yes you did. And now I'll make sure it happens every time."

"Always?" I ask, staring at the deep purple love bite I had left to blossom on his throat.

"Always, Georgie."

I can live with that.

* * *

As you can see, I have decided to write another chapter before the ending. So, two more posts coming up before it's over! Thanks to anyone reading this, even if you have remained silent. I hope you enjoyed the lemon, I was rather pleased with how it turned out for Georgie.


	14. Denouement On A Holiday

Title: Sanity

Rating: Mature

Pairings & Warnings: Mainly George/Oliver but contains Fred/Angelina, plus all of the Canon pairings exist. Multi-chaptered. Post-Hallows. Slash and Het. Angst. Language. A lot of drinking. All of those fun things.

Notes: Fred married Angelina Johnson before his death. They had a daughter two days prior to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Summary: It isn't the same, when half of you dies. Not that George is sporting how he's feeling, except to his outlets. When he's asked what he is waiting for, he can't even answer anymore. Could you?

* * *

"I still can't believe you stayed open today. It's Christmas _Eve_," Angelina says with something like disgust in her tone.

"Exactly. That means I get to cash in on all the forgetful little wizards who've forgotten to pick up presents," I cackle, pushing in the drawer of the cash register. "Fools,"

"Ugh." Angelina grumbles. "And I agreed to be here, why?"

"Because you told me a week ago you don't wanna show up at the Burrow alone. I can't see why. Lee and Cornelia count, don't they?"

"Well of course! But you need us just as much. You haven't brought Oliver around yet,"

For the thousandth time today, I bite my lips thinking of that very subject. "They know who he is."

"Yeah, yeah…your lover, he is." Angelina pokes me hard in the ribs before fleeing from the desk.

I feel myself actually growl, which in turn alarms the two twelve year olds in front of me.

It isn't that I've randomly become ashamed of my boyfriend. Which, is exactly what Oliver is to me. But there really hasn't been many opportunities to bring him home. Dad's always busy looking at retirement things and getting in his hours. Mum's usually out, pestering her grandchildren, especially three week old Dominique. I could have answered Percy's dinner party invitation…it just didn't feel right. A bunch of Percy's snobby little Ministry friends versus Oliver, an athletic pouf. Oh, the conversations.

However, Christmas Eve was just a waiting chance to confirm my family's worst fears. One of them being the fact that Oliver and I have been living together and that it simply was going to stay that way. Nothing had really changed. I moved out of the shop and into his flat. His friends like me, his family…well they probably won't ever see the gray in this situation. I'm a disease on their blood line and that is that. But Oliver doesn't care, so neither do I. As for his career, he's building up momentum to make in on England's national team. Puddlemere wasn't too thrilled with his face spilling across the _Witch Weekly's _gossip section.

"Close up! Oliver's here!" Angelina returns, smiling. Cornelia's holding tight onto her hand.

"I like your scarf," she murmurs to Oliver in her quiet, nearly eerie childlike manner. Then she pulls the striped green fabric that's hanging down past his waist.

"Why thank you, little girl," Oliver says cheerfully, picking her up right off her feet and settling her onto his side as easily as one would swing a book sack. She isn't exactly a tiny baby anymore.

Cornelia giggles and hugs him around the neck.

"So, are we shipping off soon or what? I'm starving over here," Oliver complains to me just as I began to shut things down.

"Soon, soon. Shut up," I tease.

"Yes, Master." he winks from over the top of Cornelia's mess of curls.

I roll my eyes but I end up smiling. Too hard to resist the urge anymore.

We're heading to the strange back alley of mine in less than ten minutes. However, it is more awkward this time because we are a party of five instead of two, and we're all carrying some odd packages. I'm toting a vase of the violets Oliver's father had planted for my Mum's gift, while he's holding onto Cornelia. Angelina has a giant bowl of some dessert she had baked earlier. Lee has a bag of brightly wrapped presents for everybody else.

And, it was starting to snow.

"Let's get the fuck out of here. I'm freezing." Lee complains, shifting his weight as we shiver under the gaslight.

"I have the Portkey all ready, give me a minute." Angelina holds her bowl in one arm and rummages through her pocket until she pulls out an old, yellowing newspaper. Tapping her wand to it in silence, it glows neon blue and flickers out.

"Make sure you hold her hand to it, Oliver," Lee warns as his teeth begin to chatter.

"I have it," Oliver confirms, holding Cornelia's tiny wrist in his own hand.

"Alright everyone. One, two, three!" Angelina cries out and we all touch the newspaper at exactly the same moment. I feel a strong tug from below my naval and push upwards away from my shop. For once, I land gracefully onto the soft snowy ground. Usually I fall right on my face when using port keys.

"Good one," Lee smirks in my direction.

I childishly attempt to trip him as we walk behind our significant others up the narrow path to the house.

"Why'd we land so far anyway?" Oliver asks Angelina.

"Well, I didn't want to accidentally set the destination _in_ the house so I did the best I could,"

"Good thinking." Oliver decides as an afterthought. He's first to the door and bravely knocks upon the rough surface.

Fleur is the one who answers, smiling more warmly that I have ever seen. "Happy Christmas," she greets and places air kisses on either side of Oliver's face.

Giving everyone the same treatment, we all manage to squeeze into the hallway and shut the door. A light coating of powder white snow covers the floor. Even the foyer has been decorated this year, with tiny gold twinkling lights wrapping their way like snakes around the stair banisters. Fresh holly and mistletoe bushels are stashed into every doorframe. The entire place smells of food and pine trees.

"Georgie!" a voice greets that is much more screechy than the others. It can only be my mother.

"Happy Christmas, Mum." I mumble into her shoulder when she pulls me into a strangling embrace.

"Oh, Happy Christmas, yes." she says after kissing the side of my neck. I can feel the lipstick mark my skin as she pulls away.

"These are for you. Oliver's father grew them up especially tall so they'd fit in this vase," I mentioned before handing her the plant.

"Ooh! They are beautiful dear, thank you."

"Well they were more Oliver's idea, perhaps you should thank him." I whisper, and her and I pause amongst noise and chatter that continues around us. Her wide eyes drop to my hand, which is still connected to Oliver's, even though we are having very separate conversations. Our eyes don't break the gaze until Cornelia goes running past us and nearly knocks the vase out of my mother's arms.

"Careful dear," she chides even though the moment to do so has long since passed. "Of course…well," My mother fumbles with the big purple bow that is wrapped tight around the plant.

"Do you like the flowers, Mrs. Weasley?" he smiles genuinely as she cautiously approaches him.

"They're lovely, you must tell your father that he really knows his business," she laughs nervously.

"Of course," Oliver grins again, turning away to talk to Ginny.

"Oh, and Oliver. Call me Molly,"

"Right then. Molly,"

There should be a sound like a large wall of glass shattering into a thousand pieces, but there just isn't one. My mother passes by us into the kitchen, admiring the violets on the way. She wasn't the only opposition. My father is lurking around here somewhere. I start to search through the throngs of people when a strong hand grasps my wrist. Oliver pulls me away, back into the hall.

"What is it?"

"There is something I have to tell you, before the paper comes out after Christmas."

"Oh fuck, what is it now?" I groan as he yanks me up a few stairs. It's rather dark, only a few long candles have been lit leading up to the second floor.

He strokes my cheek, shaking his head. "Nothing really. I honestly couldn't care less…but Puddlemere has cut me from the team,"

I go to scream a loud, echoing "WHAT?", but Oliver knows me too well and shoves his hand tight across my lips.

"I don't really mind. England's going to put me on second string now and I get my chance to throw it back in their faces next year."

Oliver takes his hand away and reveals my sullen frown.

"But you were doing so well. You _definitely_ would have led them to the Minor Cup this year. Are they really that stupid?" All of this comes out rather fast, and I would say even more things to damn Puddlemere, but Oliver's lips close over my own.

The kiss is short, but is somehow able to stop my rant. How does he do that?

"It is their loss. They didn't want another 'scandal' to show up in Witch Weekly,"

"But what could they possibly print? They already know we live together,"

"It's Veronica. She's been blabbing to the papers about how I've abandoned my family and my Mother."

My jaw falls open into an "O". "Can we kill her?"

Oliver snorts, looking back down into the foyer. "I don't care about that. I just care about getting your family to like me and getting through this party,"

I wrap my arms around his waist, drawing him closer. It's comforting to me to watch has his worried face warms and turns back into a pleased one. Our lips meet again and again until a tiny cough echoes its way towards us.

We break apart and see Ginny peering from below.

"Lovebirds of the forbidden sort! Time for dinner!" she grins mischievously and scampers back to the living room.

I sigh and lean contentedly against the wall. "We have the worst luck imaginable,"

Oliver snickers and lays his head upon my shoulder. "We'll live. Can you deal with all of this?"

"I can. I've had worse before."

"Well that's good then. Loads of practice,"

I roll my eyes and push him away from me, as hard as hell as that is to do anywhere. We return to the living room and see that it has changed since we left ten minutes ago. A table clothed in white stands before the fireplace. With the tree and all of the guests, its packed tight inside the room. We manage to find plates and silverware, but halfway through the dessert portion of the table, I've lost Oliver.

However, I see my father escaping beside the liquor cabinet near the window. I squeeze past Audrey and Percy and make my way over to him.

"Ello Dad,"

He turns away from the window, almost surprised to see me standing there. His fork rests awkwardly in his grip, although it is empty. Slowly he grins and pushes his glasses back up and off the end of his nose.

"Happy Christmas, George! Enjoying the festivities?"

I shrug. "It's alright. A little packed though, innit?"

"Isn't room to swing a broomstick," he waves his fork at the people behind me, all joking and talking and eating.

"But Mum insisted you two host the party?"

Dad sighs. He really doesn't have to answer that question.

"Your Mum enjoys these types of things. Not that I don't mind spending time with the family," he add hurriedly. "But our family has expanded a bit in the past few years,"

"I'll say," I laugh and after a second Dad laughs a little, too.

"So…so, Oliver." He coughs and shoves a forkful of ham into his mouth, which he quickly tries to swallow. "…living together?" he manages to get out around the food.

"Yes, I moved into his apartment last month," I guess at his question.

Dad smiles while simultaneously rubbing his eyes from behind his spectacles.

"It's serious, is it son?"

"Yeah, Dad, it really is."

He nods, as if digesting that thought more than his strangled mouthfuls of Christmas dinner. "Did you ever tell Freddie…before he, well you know…before,"

"I did. He always told me and convinced me that it was okay with him,"

Father nods again. He turns to the window and I do the same. The snow outside is coming down thicker than before. Beautiful mounds of white have covered all the brown and earthy greens. Ice coats all the bare tree branches, giving them a glazed appearance. A snow man stands in the yard where Cornelia and Charlie had built it a few days ago. Every five minutes or so it stands on its own and tosses a few snowballs at the side of the house.

"You know…I haven't been around all that much. I know that. I've been at work a lot," Dad says, eyes following the snowballs.

"You're busy. We all get that,"

"It's no excuse. I still feel as though I abandoned everyone, and maybe I did. Maybe that's why I stayed away all the time. And when you had your…your break, I just felt terrible. As though maybe I should have seen it."

"No one seemed to, Dad," I place my hand over his forearm. "There was no way you could have stopped me."

"You don't know that! I could've…I could've," he tapers off to more than a whisper. "I should have done something."

My father looks up at me, eyes watery. His shoulders shake a little but instead of a sob, he lets out a tiny sigh.

"Best get to the party, Georgie." he straightens up. "Don't want the family to think we're antisocial,"

I smile back and follow him away from the liquor cabinet. "Too right, Dad."

Everyone seems so happy.

It could be that it's the holidays. It could be that cliché, but somehow still lovable feeling of family togetherness. Perhaps it's the food or the company or the gifts. Maybe it's the children, and how adorable it is that everyone just seems to keep producing daughters- much to Bill's chagrin, I'm sure. But maybe, it isn't any of those things. It could be that we're all just happy that we made it out alive. That sounds so cruel but nobody can pretend that they didn't count their own blessings when they waltzed out of that school in one piece. Fuck, I know I did. Even though I had spent an entire night beside my own twin's cold corpse, I still thanked the heavens that I was still breathing.

But that is just too ironic. I was so thankful for living at first, but once I tried living without Fred and even Oliver, I realized that living just didn't have a point anymore. I didn't want it. I truly wished that I had perished instead of Fred, or Moody, or Colin Creevey. That is amazingly selfish in its own right, too. After completely decomposing and somehow rebuilding myself, I've seen life for what it truly is.

It never stays the same. You can't run from change, so don't bother.

It doesn't wait around for your ass, so get on the ball.

And it measured by what you put into it, and that alone. If nothing is added, nothing will exist. Therefore, you will be unhappy unless you actually _live._

"Georgieeeee," Oliver calls right beside my ear lobe. His voice is shallow and soft against my skin.

"Have you been tasting the wine?" I ask, but then he hiccups from behind me.

"No. None at all. Come visit the mistletoe with me," and then staggers away, greeting Fleur a little too enthusiastically.

I don't really think I've healed yet. Sometimes when I smell the wine others drink, my lips seem to lust for it. It is a bad drug for me, in the worst of ways. Occasionally I look into mirrors and still take too long wondering what Freddie may be doing. I won't ever be completely happy. I'll get close. I'll get _so_ close to where I can touch it. But only around Oliver, and perhaps Cornelia. She looks more like Fred everyday. Is it terribly dramatic to say my own brother has left a hole inside my heart? Probably. Oliver is the same way. I still catch him staring off into space at his family pictures when we eat dinner together at home.

Weird…I've been calling this _house_ home, when it isn't anymore. Home is with Oliver now.

I never thought I'd grow up. With Fred, everyday at the shop was just a continuation of our boyhood at the Burrow.

"C'mere," Oliver whispers, even though I'm right in front of him. The lights are low now around us. Mum and Audrey are singing along to the radio broadcast while Ginny and Charlie make fun of them from the sidelines. Cornelia is teaching Teddy and Victoire proper management of her dollhouse.

"I am here," I say coyly and dodge his lips.

"Tease. You know, I can't stop thinking about something you said once…"

"What did I say?"

"You told me all we had to do in this life was die. I thought you were being a tad morbid, but I really get it…we can chose to do more. But we have to make the choice,"

"You are too wise for me, Oliver Wood,"

"Nah. But I _am_ too handsome for you,"

"Oh, ha ha," I go to complain, but his kiss has already consumed anything else I could possibly ever say.

* * *

The...last chapter. :). Please stick around for the epilogue, whoever is still reading.


	15. Fred’s Conclusion

Title: Sanity

Rating: Mature

Pairings & Warnings: Mainly George/Oliver but contains Fred/Angelina, plus all of the Canon pairings exist. Multi-chaptered. Post-Hallows. Slash and Het. Angst. Language. A lot of drinking. All of those fun things.

Notes: Fred married Angelina Johnson before his death. They had a daughter two days prior to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Summary: It isn't the same, when half of you dies. Not that George is sporting how he's feeling, except to his outlets. When he's asked what he is waiting for, he can't even answer anymore. Could you?

* * *

It is all very fine for others to tell you not to peek. However, if you have ever been human, you know that when someone else tells you not to look, the urge just heightens. It becomes all you can ever think about. All you could ever want. That thing I just have to see stares back at me everyday. No one dawdles in the pasture now. I've been roaming for what feels like twenty years. It's amazing that time isn't real anymore. I feel old, but not tired. Never tired.

So I am always thinking.

I have a place to think, now, you know. It's pretty glorious and brilliant. I'm alone usually but Remus Lupin visits me a lot, and sometimes Lily Potter. Talking to Colin is almost impossible. James says he's still freaked out over the whole "experience" of watching the living. I still find it so tempting. My party is gorgeous. Miles of clear, blue water and endless ripples of black beyond that. I watch the sunrise and the sunset occasionally, marveling at how the colors are always different. There are hills and trees, all done in autumn shades from red to golden yellow.

No matter where I am, however, my eyes linger upon that grassy valley.

I wait beneath my favorite evergreen for the Potters to leave their bungalow. I have to pass somewhat unnoticed. I scramble over the tiny fence and I'm beneath a strange white cloud. A misty fog surrounds itself around me, even though I know if anyone is watching they merely see me standing under nothingness. I look upwards, and every single thing fades into black.

A pang of utter loneliness stabs me from the inside out. The emotion is surprising and certainly unwanted. But it fades very quickly and now I can see…a flash of red. A tall, brightly lit evergreen tree decorated for the holidays. Snow covers the entire yard like a white blanket. I need to see more, and I'm amazed as the scene pushes itself further along.

The Burrow. Home.

My flesh, if it is still called such, shivers all over. Everyone seems to be celebrating Christmas. Mum and…a rather beautiful woman with dark hair, singing along to that ridiculous winter radio broadcast. I laugh when I see Ginny and Charlie making fun of them. It's rather called for. They all seem very happy. I spy a ring on my little sister's finger, and it isn't too difficult to tell where that must have come from. Hermione and Ron are alone in the far corner. I've never seen baby Ronnikens looking so serious in his entire life. If a look of complete and utter devotion can be summed up in someone's eyes, than I would say that is what his are saying.

Dad's rambling on about retirement to a few of his work friends. Retirement? Merlin, I didn't realize he was so far along.

The house is just as I remember. Same patched furniture. Same overwhelming smell of different foods. I'm watching Harry peck Ginny's cheek beneath a cluster of dark green mistletoe when a tiny girl catches my glance.

Cornelia. She isn't a baby anymore.

If I could cry, I would. But I never will again.

She's holding several little dolls in her arms. A blonde toddler, who just _must_ belong to Fleur and Bill looks at her with glee. Beside her is an older child, with hair that keeps sliding into different shades. Too easy- that one's Teddy Lupin. Cornelia seems to be showing them her doll collection. She's a leader, and that definitely is right from her parents.

Angelina.

Where could she be?

I search the faces quickly, wondering where I can see her perfect one. When I do find her, I can't help that my heart bottoms out.

If I still have a working heart.

Lee Jordan has his arm wrapped tight around her back. He's placing soft kisses all around her neck while she giggles over it. It's hard not to notice the tiny gold ring that blazes against her dark finger. I want to burn and siege with rage- but I can't. I don't have those emotions and she looks too happy. I want nothing less but for her to smile one million times every day. And I don't care if that sounds like a lot.

Now for George. He's the only ginger missing from the crowd packed tight into the sitting room. I can't say I miss him the most. But I think about him all the time. He used to always claim he was alright when I would ask him, even if it wasn't true. I wonder if he would have something to say now that we seem so far from each other. I push out into the tiny hallway near the front door. What I stumble upon is a view that if I could be caught, George would pound me into a pulp for watching.

Oliver Wood has his arms wrapped tight around my brother, their lips together in a shallow kiss.

"It's their loss. They didn't want another scandal to show up in _Witch Weekly_,"

"But what could they possibly print? They already know we live together,"

Well, well. Go George.

"It's Veronica. She's been babbling to the papers how I've abandoned my family and my Mother,"

My brother's jaw drops into a perfect "O" shape. "Can we kill her?"

I want to snicker.

Oliver's eyes drift right down to where my presence is observing. He makes some sort of snorting sound.

"I don't care about that. I just care about getting your family to like me and getting through this party."

It's too much to watch the way they look at one another. If I could I'd save them from the casualties and harsh realities that make up life. I can already foresee troubles with Oliver's work and family, and how George is still so devoted to the shop. But the Weasley's are good at keeping lovers. It's just what we do.

They embrace and kiss again when Ginny comes tip-toeing through the hall. Her lips turn upwards into a grin and she coughs.

Both men look down towards her.

"Love birds of the forbidden sort! Time for dinner!" she smiles wider and leaves them on the staircase.

George sighs and leans back. "We have the worst luck imaginable,"

Oliver laughs and warms up against my brother's shoulder. "We'll live. Can you deal with all of this?"

"I can. I've had worse before." I feel my insides quiver a little. You have to wonder if that is about me.

"Well that's good then. Loads of practice,"

Then my brother pushes his boyfriend away and drifts back into the living room. Oliver is right behind him, watching him with the most intense eyes possible. I haven't seen Oliver look so serious. Not even during Quidditch trials.

I don't have to stay here long. There is sadness, but happiness clings around as well. I do see mistakes. But I know I can't ever fix them. I won't need to come back here. One day I will see my Cornelia and Angelina, I can laugh and joke with Georgie. However, I never want to see them for a long time. They have lives and I wish I could live it right along with them all.

But I never will.

So, I pull myself out of the warm fog and stand up off the ground. A little bit of shaking rids my head of any more of the chilly blackness. When my eyes blink away the last of the glaze, I see James at the edge of the fence. He looks uncomfortably up at the blank sky.

"How did that go?" he asks me, gesturing back to towards the pasture as I approach him.

"I didn't have a thing to worry over. George is with Oliver. Angie's happy. Cornelia is more like me than I thought."

James cracks a smile. "She's too curious for her own good, while simultaneously ignoring her elders?"

I grin back. "We can only hope."

Together, we walk along the strange beach that has no end. I feel compelled to share at least something with the father of the Boy Who Lived.

"Harry and my sister are married. Thought you outta know."

"Thanks. I hope it works out well," he says thoughtfully, pausing to watch the skies.

"I think so. I really didn't feel too compelled to stay,"

His hazel eyes dart back to me. "You sure?"

I shift against the dark sand. "Well,"

James says nothing more, and just nods silently. I only want to stay if it could be in person. I'd even be a ghost, maybe. But I know that no one would want that sort of existence for me. Everyone is coming along so well. A bubble of warmth spreads all along my being, and, for once, I can recall what happiness is. Their faces filter throughout my brain, the last one being the happy little grin on my twin's face.

Silly me, I had nothing to ever worry about.

**The end.**

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In case anyone reading was confused on the time span. & no, I don't care if this follows the actual time line.

Prelude: May 2nd, 1999.  
Chapter 2: May 2nd, 1999.  
Chapter 3: June 99'.  
Chapter 4: around July or end of August 99'.  
Chapter 5: late November 99'.  
Chapter 6: December 24th of 99.  
Chapter 7: January 8th 2000.  
Chapter 8: April 27th, 2000.  
Chapter 9: April 31st, 2000.  
Chapter 10: May 2nd, 2000.  
Chapter 11: July 31st 2000.  
Chapter 12: September 2000.  
Chapter 13: November 2000.  
Chapter 14: Dec 2000.  
Epilogue: Dec 2000.

Thanks to everyone reading this story. The reviews meant alot to me, and I don't mind if this story is archived. Please check out all of my other stories and look for my new one, which will concern Draco Malfoy, this fall.

Peace out.


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